Where A Knight's Heart Lies
by xmidnightfangx
Summary: The man reached Alanna's side, his blood red magic crackled in the air around them, “All you need to know is that the game has begun and your king may be in danger, knight.”
1. Table of Contents

**Please Read**

_For anyone who reads this, I decided to post a table of contents, mainly for my own convenience ^^ so I hope you don't mind. I'll post notes and the main disclaimer here (don't worry, they'll still be at the top of every chapter) as well as anything else that I think up of. _

**Table of Contents**

_What Fanfic Says__In Reality_

Chapter 1 Table of Contents

Chapter 2 Prologue

Chapter 3 Chapter 1

Chapter 4 Chapter 2

Chapter 5 Chapter 3

Chapter 6 Chapter 4

Chapter 7 Chapter 5

**Disclaimer and Author's (that's me!) Notes**

I own nothing of the story line from which this fanfic is deprived from. Nor do I own the characters (for the most part) that originated from the story. Tamora Pierce is the true and only owner. But I do own the plot line in this fanfic, Where a Knight's Heart Lies, along with a few characters. And just a heads up, this is rated M only because of harsh language, violence, and a hint of lemons (don't worry…there should be no true lemons in this story…I just don't write like that, it's not my style)

Please if you read this, write a review so I know if I should improve and basically keep on writing. Any type of criticism is welcomed, I can probably handle it…I think…anyways, I hope you enjoy my fanfic. And just one last thing before I shut up…my chapters are LONG…I am so sorry for that, but I can't write short chapters… and due to such length, it takes me a long time to write it, so it might be a few months before I update it again. So, I'll say it now, I'm sorry if it takes awhile.

Oh and one last thing (I lied) I love cliffhangers…Later!

**My thanks goes out to…**

BioAlchemist and Lumera for putting up with my constant begging to read my fanfics ^^;

Thanks!!


	2. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from the Tortall Stories by Tamora Pierce, except the plot line in this story and a few characters that i will mention as they appear.**

**Author's notes: This is the prologue to my first fanfic for the Tortall saga. And it takes place after all the other books that she (Pierce) has written, when Alanna is older and thinking of retirement. That's all you need to know for now, so I hope you like it. (Also, please review!! I just want some feed back and anything is fine with me) and one last thing--sorry--This is rated M for language, violence, and some slight lemons (very slight though) because that's my style.**

**Where a Knight's Heart Lies**

Prologue

_She was lost, her eyes unable to penetrate the dark clouds that covered her vision. Yet she never had been one to give up without a fight and despite her age, she wasn't planning on changing. Closing her luminous violet eyes, her wrinkled hands encased the Goddess' gift from so many years ago. Her lips formed a prayer to her patron._

"_Don't even bother, my dear Lioness," a voice whispered from the surrounding shadows, "none of your gods will hear you—not while you resided in my domain." Her gray hair flew as she jerked her bowed head up, searching for the source of sound._

"_What is that suppose to mean?" Alanna—known as the Lioness from when she had returned with the Dominion Jewel—demanded, a tint of fear trickling into her normally strong voice. _

"_Afraid are we?" the voice chuckled at her expense. For a moment, the voice paused, then let out a sigh, "My dear, you have no idea how long I've waited for this day"_

_A renegade strand of the shadow reached out to caress her pale face, making Alanna shiver with loathing. She tried to push it aside, but shadows wrapped their dark tentacles around her slim body; nothing tight enough to strangle her but enough to subdue her struggles. Alanna froze, her mind jumping back to a brief period of time when something similar happened: the day she and Myles had found Lightening. It was enough to make her break out into a cold sweat._

"_Have I scared you, little Lioness? The most feared warrior throughout the land is quivering in fear before me—"_

_Anger filtered into her mind banishing the fear for the time being, and since she never could mask her emotions, her anger showed in her eyes, turning them into smoldering pools of indigo, "Shut up!"_

_The voice snickered, "You never were one for witty come backs, were you?"_

"_Show yourself, or are you a coward who hides behind his own magic? Come out to where we can truly fight!" she taunted, knowing that she had to reign in her temper before whoever this mage was got the better of her._

_Again, the voice laughed at her, "I'm not sure you're in any position to make demands, dear Alanna. Wouldn't you agree?"_

_Clenching her fists, Alanna fell silent. It only humored the voice more, "You're fuming right now, aren't you? After all, the Lioness isn't used to be the one at a disadvantage; where's your patron—your gods? or your precious king and endearing husband? They'll all abandon you in the end, that's the cruel beauty of this world—"_

"_No, you're wrong!" Alanna yelled back, furious at how the mage dared to blaspheme against those that she cared for and loved. If only she had her sword, if only she could see the fiend. Yet those shadows pulsed with magic, a very familiar and disturbing magic._

"_Am I? I doubt it, and deep in your core, you know that what I say is the truth. Admit it, Lioness, in your old age you have grown frail and ignorant. Friends are friends, but in the end when it's either their skin they can save or yours, they'll choose their own. Every one of them: your king, your gods, even your own family will leave you."_

_She bit the inside of her cheek to resist the urge to scream, "They would never do it," she growled back, "I don't know what you want, but trying to convince me of such an outlandish lie won't work. Not on me!"_

"_But it already has. Right now, as you resist me, your mind is working through the possibilities. I'm right, aren't I? Don't deny me the truth, after all, I thought you hated lying to others. Does that character trait not extend to a…an old friend?"_

"_You are no friend of mine." Alanna spat in reply._

"_Maybe not," the voice returned coldly, "But surely you've heard of the old proverb of keeping ones enemies closer than ones friends?"_

_Slowly, Alanna could feel her control slipping from her, "What do you want then?"_

_The shadows around her swirled, "I'm so glad you asked, Alanna," Soon Alanna found herself trapped inside what seemed to be an eye of a hurricane, "I want power—I want immortality—I want to see my enemies quivering at my feet—I want those that ever thwarted my past actions dead by my own hands."_

_In front of her, the hurricane slowed, drawing the shadows into one particular place. A form of a man began to take shape, "But in particular, I want the one thing that has been forbidden from me the day I laid my eyes on it"_

_Sapphire eyes appeared out of the shadows, accompanied by dark brown hair that reached his shoulders, held back by a thread. His skin was a golden color, the picture of pure health despite his death many years ago. He wore different clothes though, Alanna noted numbly, black breeches, black leather boots that reached his knees, and a blood red robe that graced his well fit form. A dull golden tunic was tucked into his breeches and slightly open at the top, reveling a well toned chest. He was just as handsome when she had killed him numerous years ago._

_She felt her knees betray her, dropping her to the ground that suddenly appeared beneath her feet._

_The man only smiled maliciously at her, "Yet now, that thing that has been forbidden from me has grown old, used and above all: pitiable. You want to know what I am speaking of?" He walked over to her crumpled form, looming out of her reach._

"_Its obvious," Alanna's eyes flashed a vivid purple, "Tortall. It's what you've always wanted and you've killed in the past to get it—"_

_The man reached down and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his cold eyes, "Tortall? Don't make me laugh, that's the last thing on my mind. I was referring to you, Alanna."_

"_What?"_

_He threw his head back with amusement, "Don't act so surprise, Alanna, I would have thought I made it clear at our last—parting."_

"_When you tried to kill me?" she snarled, trying to break away from him._

_His fingers only tightened, "If I remember correctly, it was you that 'killed' me" he pointed out, his free hand pushing a lock of her hair from Alanna's face._

"_Then how are you still alive?"_

_Sapphire eyes caught her own, and held them in such intensity that Alanna could see barely contained fury behind them, "All in good time, don't want to spoil your surprise, now would we?"_

_Blinking, Alanna didn't have time to protest before he leaned down and captured her mouth with his own. Fear took hold of her and she fought, but once his lips touched hers, he drew back, a sneer on his handsome face._

"_There, the first move has been made"_

"_What is that suppose to mean—" Alanna was cut off by the sudden pain that erupted in her body. A small fire began to burn inside her, quickly consuming her whole being in its flames. It shifted within her and began to eat at her skin seeking a way out. Then, as quick as it came, it was gone, replaced by a coldness that left Alanna shivering._

_Opening her eyes, she looked around, surprised by how she ended up on the floor, never remembering falling in the first place. The man stood by, a grin upon his perfect face. By his side stood a window where a woman, no more than the age of twenty, laid on the floor. Her violet eyes sparkled with life, framed by a burning mane of red hair that reached a little ways past her shoulders. Suddenly, Alanna felt sick._

_It was her, forty four years ago._

"_What—what have you done?" she whispered, her reflection followed her movement as she lifted her no longer wrinkled hand to a pale face, "What kind of illusion is this?"_

"_No illusion, my dear," he replied, walking around her, "That is the real you, molded to any age of my choosing, and you shall remain that way until I will it otherwise"_

_Her mouth twitched with ire, "Stop speaking in fucking riddles!"_

_The man reached her side, his blood red magic crackled in the air around them, "All you need to know is that the game has begun and your king may be in danger, knight." _

_Shadows slowly moved along his feet, climbing up his frame. Alanna made a grab for him, and instead grabbed a piece of his red robe. It tore, sending her flying backward. Yet nothing ever caught her, and she began to fall. _

_As she fell, she felt his presence, "We'll see each other again, dear Lioness, you can count on that." Roger of Contè whispered to her._


	3. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from the world of Tortall, created by Tamora Pierce, except for this plotline and a few characters that I'll mention as they appear**

**Authors Note: Ok, this is the first chapter to **_**Where a Knight's Heart Lies**_** and I hope you enjoy it. But it would be a great help if someone could post a review or even just a simple note. I normally don't write fanfics, so any info would be appreciated by yours truly ^^ **

Chapter One

Alanna screamed as she fell from the bed where she slept, landing on the stone floor. She laid there without moving allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. Her breath formed white clouds before her, created by the cool air, yet she was covered in perspiration. Turning her head to the side, she noticed that the fire in the heath had died sometime during the night, letting the bedroom's temperature drop drastically.

"Weird dream" she muttered to herself to break the eerie silence that surrounded her like a cloak or like arms—_no_! She shook her head, refusing think of the nightmare, after all it had been a dream.

Sighing, Alanna propped herself up with her left arm, using the right to wipe away the sweat that had formed on her forehead as she leaned against the smooth wood of her bed, taking deep breaths. She pulled her legs up to her chest and let her head fall to rest upon her knees. Eventually her breath deepened, but her heart rate was still beating sporadically.

She took a few more breaths before looking up to stare at the opposite wall still thinking,_ it was just an ordinary nightmare, everyone has them; this one was no exception either. _

"Just a dream" she repeated the thought louder to convince herself of it, yet even as she said it, she knew that she was only lying to herself. In the past her dreams had been border lining the truth or at least contained a message to portray; yet this time it had to be wrong, it was impossible. Roger had died forty four years ago, by her sword, Lightening.

Besides there was no one strong enough to raise him this time either. Only Thom her brother could've done it—after all he did it last time—but Roger had killed him shortly before his own death delivered by Alanna herself. Now there was no one that existed with such power; and even if there was, the council of mages in the City of the Gods would have heard of them.

A sigh escaped her mouth as she turned her head to the side, glancing around her empty room, where she was the only breathing being. Alanna blinked, glaring at the empty bed.

_He never came to bed last night, _she thought, dropping her head back onto her knees, _that idiot, he doesn't know when enough is enough_.

Ever since Myles, her adopted father and previous Spy Master had died, her husband was up until unspeakable hours and constantly skipping meals and sleep. Alanna sighed, knowing that he loved his job just as much as she loved her own, but at this pace he was going to kill himself. After all, he almost died last fall when he had a surprise heart attack. Alanna herself had been in Corus for the month, but thankfully her son, Thom II, had been at home and was able to save his father.

"But what about next time?" she thought aloud, "What if neither us are there to save you? I don't think I could live without you George" a single tear slipped from her control, slowly trailing a gleaming line down her face. Roughly, she brushed it away.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a piece of cloth held securely in her right hand. Dazedly, she opened her hand to study the torn cloth. It felt like silk, yet seemed much more durable than such flimsy material. Lifting it to her nose, she sniffed it.

It was a strange smell, yet faintly familiar. An intoxicating mixture, of an exotic herb and the smell that is left in the air after a lightening storm, filled her delicate nose. Not only that, but it reeked of power that made her sneeze. A cold shiver ran down her spine. She recognized the smell now.

"No…that's—impossible" she whispered, her grip tightening on the material. With her free left hand, she grasped the gem—known as the Tear of the Goddess—that hung around her neck. With this token from her patron goddess, Alanna was able to see any traces of magic that lingered even after the spell was complete. It had saved her too many times to count, including the first time she killed Roger, when he had used an illusion to confuse her during a court duel. In the end she had won, but only because the Goddess had foreseen the Dukes tricks.

Yet as she held the gem, a scream caught in her throat. There was a stain of blood red magic drenching the cloth, a magic that only one being Alanna had ever known had. As if it was contaminated—which technically it would fall under that category—Alanna dropped the fabric that she had torn from Roger's, the Duke of Contè, robe. It drifted slowly to the floor, as if mocking her.

"No," she muttered in horror, "Please, Goddess, it can't be" Alanna pushed herself from the side of the bed away from the shredded cloth and crawled almost frantically over to the chest that sat at the opposite wall. Her hands shook as she unlocked it and dug through the clothes she had placed in it. Finally, her hand found the cool metal handle that lurked in the depths of the chest.

Holding her breath, she brought the mirror—an old gift her son had given to her when he was only a child—to her face. The same young woman from her dream stared back at her.

She was young again, and it was no illusion.

The mirror dropped from her numb hand, shattering onto the floor. Alanna hardly noticed its absence from her fingers. Instead she stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused on the wall and her heart beating in her throat. Her normally calm mind went blank and suddenly Alanna felt her throat closing, making it harder to breathe.

No longer able to remain standing, Alanna fell to her knees, "This can't be happening" she whispered leaning forward as her outstretched hands reached out, halting her descent. Her body shook of its own accord as broken glass cut into her skin, but she ignored both the pain and blood that formed around her hands.

He—being Roger—did it, but she couldn't comprehend why he would do such a thing or how any of this was possible.

"Why?" Alanna asked the silence of her room, but got no answer. In its place a coldness spread down her back making the hairs on her neck stand on end. She was truly scared now, but the Lioness was never known for being a coward—in fact, there was nothing she hated more than being afraid. No, she was famous for being able to turn that fear into pure rage. Now that infamous fury crept into her bones, and suddenly she grabbed the mirror frame that laid innocently next to her side. Rising back to her knees, she threw the broken mirror against the far wall, where it broke into two pieces.

As she stalked toward the broken remains of the mirror, Roger's voice drifted through her head, _"All you need to know is that the game has begun and your king may be in danger, knight"_

Alanna stopped moving, her purple eyes widening.

"Fuck!" she hissed, realizing the hidden meaning behind his words. How couldn't she, when she obviously was the knight, and her closest friend and previous lover, Jonathan represented the King that she had to protect? He was the King of Tortall.

New thoughts bombarded her mind: had she failed? Had Roger already gotten to Jonathan? Had Roger won whatever twisted game he was playing, where life was used as the playing pieces?

The world spun around her, and Alanna collapsed onto the bed. _This is his doing,_ she told herself, _he's trying to confuse me and catch me off guard_—which Alanna hated to admit, but he already was succeeding; and just the notion of having Roger in the lead of some deadly game, made Alanna sick to her stomach.

Groaning, Alanna pressed her hands to her head. For once, she didn't know what to do. Part of her wanted to surrender, screw the rest of the world because she wanted to run for the hills. But another part—and thankfully the stronger part of her mind—refused to abandon her country. Yet even as she made the resolution not to disappear, Alanna still didn't have the slightest idea on what she was going to do next.

She had always fought a visible foe, and for the most part, not even fear could get in her way. But Roger was using back handed methods to fight this time and there was no frontal enemy before her. And that truly frightened her.

"Jon, where are you when I need you?" she whispered, pressing her hand to her throbbing head. As king, he always seemed to have the ability to make the impossible seem possible. He was, after all, the first man that actually accepted her as an equal to men and helped her achieve her shield. Besides George that is.

Jon was her closest friend, besides George, but there was something that Jonathan had that her husband never did. Sure both of them had an air of command around them, but George always seemed to be walking in the shadows, where Jon stood in the light. She loved George and always will, but when it came to Jonathan there was just something about him that made her feel needed and secure. He always seemed to emit an aura of calmness and clarity whenever everything else around them was falling apart.

_If he was here, _Alanna decided, _Jon would be telling me to get dressed and be prepared for anything. _With that thought in mind, she slid from the bed onto the floor, looking under the bed. Since her body had returned to a younger version of herself, she thought it would make sense if she also returned to her old cloths that she actually wore all those years ago.

Buried beneath the bed, was an old trunk that hadn't been touched in ages—evident from the layers of dust that rested atop of it. Pulling it out, she couldn't help sneezing as said dust rose into the air. Alanna picked the trunk up easily and placed it on the bed, not caring if the dirt it had collected over the years landed on the clean bed.

The lock on it had definitely seen better days, for the key that had resided in the keyhole had begun to rust while stuck in the lock. It took Alanna a few moments before she managed to turn the defiant key and open the trunk.

Her old cloths were neatly laid inside, and unlike the trunk itself, were untouched by age, despite being well used when she had worn them. She pulled out the first outfit that was on top.

In moments, she was dressed. Her old brown breeches that she found were worn, losing some of its original brown, turning the breeches more of a duller dirt color, and were slightly torn. She paired those with black leather boots that had lost some of its shine. The dark green tunic she pulled on was well fitted to her feminine form, including the special black corset made for movement but worn on the outside to prevent excess cloth that might diminished her speed. Black gloves covered her fingers and hands like a second skin; then lastly, she tied back her hair in a braid before she pulled on a belt that had her latest sword—which had been hung harmlessly over her bed post—around her slender waist where it came to a rest above her hips.

"Now what?" she asked herself, slightly hoping for some divine finger to point her in a direction.

As if on cue, a cry of pain reached her ears, and she recognized the voice, after all she was married to the man for forty three years. Fear laced through her being, as she sprinted from the room following the cry through her home to a room in an adjacent wing of their large house. What normally took a five minute walk, took Alanna a minute as she ran in her new body to reach her husband's office.

"George!" she yelled hoarsely as she kicked the closed door open, disregarding the lock on it. The lock shattered beneath her boot, revealing the work office of her husband.

It was reasonably small with a desk, a few chairs, a descent size hearth and numerous shelves crowded with books of all kinds. Her husband, the current Spy Master of Tortall, liked his privacy and had specifically requested this room at the far corner of their house. He said that he didn't want some of his "contacts" to interfere with his family life and Alanna had to agree with him at the time; after all, some of those acquaintances of his were very shady and remnants of his past life. Yet now, Alanna regretted that decision now more than ever as her eyes fell upon the crumbled body of her husbands.

Blood had pooled around his head and stained the almost nonexistent corner of the desk that was buried under piles of papers. Some of which now covered his limp form.

"No," Alanna whispered in horror, clinging to the door frame as her body threatened to fall, "George?"

Only a moaned "Alanna" answered her call. Stumbling from the door way, she ran over to him and fell to her already bruising knees. She pulled him into her arms and held him there, tears rolling down the sides of her face. Alanna buried her own face into his broad shoulder, ashamed by her tears but unable to prevent them.

George groaned, his deep voice rumbling in her ear, "Alanna?" he whispered sounding a little confused.

"I—I'm here, George" she hiccupped.

He pulled himself into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around her slender waist. With a free hand, he reached up and gently slapped the back of her head, "What the fuck are you doing in my room?" he growled as he crushed her into his embrace. His tone, though deep, held a hint of sarcasm.

"What?" she replied, puzzled.

His arms tightened, "I asked you, why are you here."

"I heard you scream," Alanna snapped, furious that he had the nerve to be mad at her, even if he was only joking, "And I found you drowning in your own blood! Is there something wrong with being worried?!"

George chuckled, "I wasn't drowning in my own blood, I just happened to fall from my seat and I hit the side of the desk against my head on my down to the floor."

"Why did you fall?" she growled at him, hoping that he wouldn't notice the tears on her face.

He sighed, "I fell asleep and had a dream."

"And you fell because of it?" she questioned.

"It was only a nightmare, Alanna. Everyone has them" Alanna felt her blood run cold and didn't move, her heart beat pounding in her ears. Those had been her exact thoughts before. She stiffened in his hold,_ That's impossible—there's no way…Roger wouldn't—would he?_

_Only one way to find out,_ Alanna thought her mind made up. She lifted her head from his shoulder, to look at him, but he had placed his own head over hers, making it impossible to see his face.

"Funny, 'cause I had one too" the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them but it made George pull away from her and stare down at her for the first time since she had walked—_well, stormed_—into the room. Her heart seemed to stop beating as she gazed back at him, while he blinked unable to capture her in his vision.

George kept blinking, his normally hazel eyes covered by a transparent film, "Alanna, I think I'm blind" he stated with a calmness that amazed her.

Alanna couldn't move, yet tears began to run down her face. Her cold hands slowly reached up to touch her husband's face, looking for those old wrinkles that she had grown accustomed to over the years.

Except the man she held was no longer her elderly husband, but the young man in his late twenties whom she had fallen in love with. Short muddy brown hair fell across the sun kissed skin of his crookedly handsome face. His nose had the same broken look as before, but it was one of his quirks that she loved. He was still tall, taller than she remembered and just as strong as ever. The only difference was his eyes, his now blind eyes.

Biting her bottom lip until she could taste blood, she shook her head refusing to believe her eyes. He was young, just like her, yet she couldn't figure out why Roger would restore George's youth—it made no sense.

George's hand came up to cup her face, but then froze. His eyes widened and even though he couldn't see the transformation she had undergone, he could still feel the alien sensation of a smooth face beneath his calloused fingers. Alanna herself closed her eyes, wishing more than ever that this was all a bad dream.

"Your…face" George muttered, removing his arm from her waist so that both of his hands could touch her face. They were gentle, but moved with an anxious need to find something familiar, "What…?"

"That dream you mentioned," She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat, "what happened in it?"

His hands still on her face, he replied evenly, "I don't really remember, except that I felt like I was falling down some kind of long tunnel. And there was this immense pain in my chest, I—I thought that I was having another heart attack." He paused shaking his head, "I think something caught me, because I could swear that I heard a voice saying, 'You're not to get in my way this time, bastard' and something, maybe a hand, covered my eyes where this bright light flared and when it cleared all I saw was darkness. And that's when I heard you're voice."

George suddenly shuddered, which scared Alanna more than anything he could have said. All these years that she had known him, George never actually showed fear—except when Ally, their only daughter, went missing. The fact that he now was showing his emotions that openly, made her face pale.

George's fingers found her mouth, "Now tell me, what on earth is going on?"

"I don't know for sure," she shook her head, grabbing his hands, "but I think I know who's behind this." Her voice held a hint of barely contained fury behind them.

Gripping her small hands harder in his own, George asked her, "Who? Who turned you this way and made me blind?"

Falling quiet, Alanna chose her words carefully, "That's not all that's happened, George," she bit her lip again in frustration, "you're like me—young again." He stared at her, without actually seeing her.

"I…I don't understand" he muttered, after moment, though it was said more to himself than his wife.

Needing him to recognize the danger the two of them were in, she took his hands and brought them to his own face. At first, his fingers didn't seem to touch his skin as if he refused to admit the truth, but slowly he rubbed the side of his face with his thumb, and then moved along until he reached his forehead.

Alanna dropped her hands and watched in silence as he explored his new found face. He seemed to have forgotten her, so Alanna pulled away. After a moment or two, his blind eyes turned in her direction as he lowered his hands, "What the fuck is going on, Alanna?"

She did not reply as she stood up, knowing that he would be able hear her action. She took a few steps farther from him, wrapping her arms around herself as she studied her blind husband, searching for words to explain. She decided on one, "Roger"

His eyes narrowed, "'Roger'? That's who is behind this? You're lying."

"Shouldn't you be able to tell, _Spy Master?_" She knew that she sounded unsympathetic, but she had to make him understand at all costs that this was real. If anyone could tell when someone was lying, it was her husband, blind or not. The corner of his mouth twitched as he turned away from her.

He lowered his head, muttering after a moments hesitation, "We're screwed, aren't we?"

"Basically" Alanna replied.

Suddenly George laughed as he leaned backward from where he sat, running his fingers through his hair, "So much for retiring." Despite his try at light humor, Alanna couldn't laugh and it made her angry that he could.

"Don't you see how freaking screwed we are?" she hissed at him, "Roger's back and you're thinking about retirement?!"

Turning to face her, he rolled his eyes, "Calm down Alanna, I was joking."

"But that's my point! How can you joke at a time like this?" She walked over to him, her hands on her hips.

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her onto his lap. A yelp escaped her mouth as she fell. Wrapping his muscular arms around her, George held her tightly.

"Let me go!" she yelled, but he was too strong, refusing to release her from his grasp.

"No," he whispered in her ear, "not until you calm down and listen to me"

"Fine" she snapped back at him and stopped struggling.

He kissed the side of her face, "Thank you, Alanna"

"Don't thank me yet, asshole" she hissed, turning away from him, "now what did you want to tell me?"

George sighed, "Well, do we know what Roger wants? The last two times he was alive, he either wanted the throne of Tortall—or the complete destruction of Tortall. Personally, those seem to be at complete opposite sides of the spectrum, so what else is left?"

"How should I know?" she lied to her husband, not wanting to relive the dream.

His strong arms tightened around her, "Now you're lying, Alanna. What aren't you telling me?" George stared, letting the silence stretch out between them. Strangely enough, she was still unnerved by his eyes more than ever before. Even though he was blind now, she could have sworn that his eyes could read her soul.

She took a deep breath, "I had a dream too, but Roger actually appeared and told me—" Alanna stopped, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, "—that he wanted the death of those that ever prevented his goals before." Her eyes studied his face, hoping that he wouldn't see through the half truth. It was true that Roger wanted to kill those people, but that wasn't all that he wanted.

"Then why would he turn us young again? Wouldn't that be against him and in our favor?" George asked the question she too had been wondering.

Alanna released a sigh of relief, _he doesn't suspect me. _Shrugging, Alanna continued, "I don't know. But he did refer to this as a game, and when he—ah…changed me, he said, 'There the game has begun' or something along those lines." She shivered at the thought.

"I never could understand how a mage's mind works" George muttered, kissing Alanna's forehead.

"Me neither, and I am one" she retorted, forgetting that she had been mad at him a few moments ago, "But what confuses me the most is why he would curse you too, George. I didn't even know that he knew that you existed"

George fell silent, before he responded, "Remember Rolan? The boy you asked me to help you defeat?"

"If I remember correctly, I asked for your help to only teach me how I could defeat him" Alanna growled.

"That's what I meant," George chuckled, "Anyways, remember how I mentioned that he was helping Roger by trying to kill me? Well, I have a feeling that maybe Roger considered my killing Rolan an act that prevented his twisted dreams?"

Alanna considered his words, "Maybe"

"What about Jon?" George asked, "Jon is the King after all, and Roger tried to kill him numerous times—"

"Shit!" Alanna yelled, breaking George's hold on her, "I forgot about him!"

His hand captured her wrist again, "Alanna, before we race off to save Jon, we need to think this through. This could be a trap designed by Roger and we would be running head first into it."

"But it's my job to protect the king—wait," she turned her head sharply, her hair flying around her, "did you just say 'we'?"

"Did you think I'd let you leave here without me?" he raised an eyebrow in her direction.

"You're blind, for Goddess' sake!" she yelled at him, "And you expect me to take you along? You're insane!"

His grip tightened, "You aren't leaving me home. Even if you did, I'd just follow you anyway."

"I'm not taking you, George!" she snapped, trying to break from his hold. He only held on tighter, "Let go of me!"

"Not until you agree that we both will go. I'm not as helpless as you believe. Sure I'm blind, but I was the King of Thieves, and you of all people should know that I'm far from helpless. Being sightless is just one inconvenience that I can over come."

"I don't care if you were a freaking god! I'm not taking you with me!"

Standing, George towered over her, his free hand grabbing her chin, "Are you calling me weak? I dare you to say that again" he hissed.

"Is that suppose to scare me?" she challenged, "George, I don't know the extent of what ever Roger did to you, but I refuse to lose you! If I did take you with me, what if you were hurt or killed? What do you think I'd do without you?"

"I can take care of myself, Alanna" his voice growled, as he took a step towards her, "You mention that you're scared of losing me? Well, if I were to stay here, what would I do if something happened to you? I married you knowing that I'd have to remain at home when you were at war, not knowing if you'd return to me or not. Do you even know how that affected me?"

Alanna was taken back, "You never said that you had a problem with that—"

"And what was I too say?" he snarled at her, "That I didn't want you going away for months on end? How could I do that to you? You live in your battles, and if I tried to hold you back, you'd loath me for it. Instead, I had to kiss you goodbye, remaining behind and praying to the God of Death that he wouldn't take you from me!"

"George—"

He cut her off, "That's why, I don't care what you say, but I am going to accompany you this time. Nothing you say will change that." Still holding her chin with his fingers, he leaned down to kiss her. His free hand moved from her wrist to snake around her waist, pulling him closer to him. Surprised, Alanna tried to pull away at first, to demand why he never told her of such feelings. Yet as he held her there, with his lips coaxing her own mouth to open, Alanna was at a lost for words.

It had been so long since George had held her like this. Too long for her liking and it felt good to be in his arms again.

Sighing, she leaned against him and draped her own arms around his neck pulling him closer to her. He deepened the kiss and Alanna clung to him as if she let go he would vanish from her world forever. The only thing that kept her standing was his arms that pressed her body closer to his own.

"Now tell me," he whispered, breaking the kiss and ignoring her protests, "That you won't let me come with you"

"Evil bastard" she muttered, standing on the tip of her toes to in order to reach his mouth. But he evaded her touch.

"Alanna, promise me"

She tilted her head backwards to glare up at him with her own purple eyes, "Fine, but I want you to know that is one dirty tactic, George." George smiled as he leaned down again to kiss her. His tongue reached into her open mouth and Alanna groaned with pleasure, when suddenly, George pulled away again.

"What the fuck is it now?" she demanded of her husband.

He smiled crookedly at her, "I believe it would be in our best interest if we left now, otherwise, I have a feeling that I will not be able to control my…myself." Despite the situation, Alanna laughed, needing no decoder to decipherer his meaning. His grin broadened, "Besides, don't you have a kingdom to save, little Lioness?"

"And are you planning on helping me, my thief?" she replied, resting her head against his well toned chest. When he chuckled, she could feel his torso moving and suddenly she smiled, feeling safer than ever.

"Ex-thief," He corrected, resting his chin on top of her head, "But, of course I'll help, after all this is my country too."

Leaning back in his hold, Alanna tugged at his sleeve, "George, we probably should be heading out now. It's at least a day and a half ride to Corus, and it's the middle of the night right now."

Her husband nodded, "But you want to make it in half of that time, don't you?"

"The King is in danger, George. Besides, if we push the horse to the fastest that she can go and switch horses at least twice, we can make it there by midday."

"Horse, as in just one and not two?"

"You can't honestly expect me to let you ride your own horse in your current state?" she asked him, leading him from the room. He chuckled, but allowed her to pull him along.

Since it was midnight, no servant was up, which worked to their advantage. George normally dismissed their serving staff after they had finished their last meal for the day and they weren't required to come in till shortly after dawn. She was never more grateful for her husband than now, for it would certainly arouse suspicion if the two of them were young again.

Unfortunately, that meant that the stable would be empty and George's stallion wouldn't be saddled. _No matter,_ she thought to herself,_ I used to be the fastest when it came to saddling a horse, so it shouldn't take too long._

Arriving at the stables, she noted that as she had foreseen, the stable only had the sleeping horses inside, the stable boy no where in sight.

"Hold on, I'll have to saddle one" she let go of George's hand and moved toward the handsome black stallion that resembled Darkness, Jonathan's horse when he had first become a knight.

She smiled at George—even though he couldn't see her grin—having finished the chore just as quick as she did when she was a squire. Wiping her hands, she brought the horse over to George and handed him the reigns.

"Still the fastest, huh?" he asked jokingly, as his foot found the stirrup.

Alanna rolled her eyes, but held Shadow, the name George had given the stallion, steady while her husband swung his leg over the side of the horse. Once settled, he held out his hand to her. She took it and George hauled her up to the saddle in front of him.

Placing his hands along her waist, he removed his feet from the stirrups to allow her own tiny feet to occupy them. Alanna acquired the reigns from his hand and pulled on them, stirring Shadow to the locked exit.

Transferring the reigns to one hand, she raised the now empty hand to point at the door. A ball of purple magic swelled around her finger, before flying from her finger tips to slam into the wooden door like an arrow shot from a bow.

Purple sparks danced along the wooden surface, glowing and crackling until it found the hinges. Steadily, as if it were a magnet, the magic gathered around the pieces metal, slowly beginning to eat at it. The metal began to melt, making a hissing noise in protest against the magically assault. Then, the hinges disintegrated, allowing the door to collapse where it fell outward.

The horse moved forward, prodded by Alanna's knees. Its hooves made a clanging noise as it stepped onto the door before it entered the night outside.

"Was that absolutely necessary, Alanna?" George asked her. Though he hadn't seen what she did, he still heard her magic and the door falling to the ground.

She shrugged, "Maybe not, but I'm in a hurry." Kicking at the sides of the stallion, Alanna and George flew from the stables and into the courtyard and then finally onto the road that lead to Corus.

Alanna pushed Shadow to his limits as he galloped at full speed, were all the scenery around them blurred into one fast moving streak. Yet Alanna didn't care. She had wasted enough time already when she had kissed George; she couldn't let anything else stop her now.

Right now Jonathan was her first priority; he was still the king and it was her job to keep him safe. She just only hoped that she wasn't too late.

To her relief, they only had to replace Shadow after half the journey was done, leaving him at a friend's inn, which they had to stop at shortly after the sun began to rise. The innkeeper, an old friend of Alanna's, lent them their best mare and promised to treat Shadow to a well deserved nap and bath. Alanna thanked the couple, tossing them a tip in thanks, before kicking the fresh mare into a gallop.

The wind blew her hair behind her, and George tightened his grip around her waist. Since she had awoken, Alanna felt truly alive. All her worries of Roger left her mind for the time being. Now all that mattered was the fact that her King needed her. Nothing would be able to rob her of that right, not now or any other time.

Raising her face to the breeze, she smiled, her violet eyes glowing brightly. Her hair whipped into her face, but Alanna didn't even seem to notice it.

Ahead of her the capital of Tortall, Corus, loomed ahead. The gates were locked, but that didn't matter any more. Biting the reigns with her teeth, Alanna freed her hands and held them out at her side, drawing magic out from her core.

Trails of her magic tainted the air as the horse ran forward. She tugged at the reigns, gently, bringing the mare to a trout, before she pointed one hand at the dark gates.

Like the stable door, her magic flew forward, striking the gates. This time though, her magic moved toward the lock at the center of the gate. Finding the lock, it penetrated it, and in seconds the metal lock fell to the ground.

With her other hand, still crackling with power, she shoved the magic from her palm at the unmoving gates while simultaneously urging the mare back into a gallop. The gates swung inward, letting them pass through. She didn't have enough time to worry about the alarms, as the mare ran through the empty streets.

_Only a few more minutes_, she thought to herself.

"Alanna," George whispered in her ear, "I don't sense anyone about. Yet it has to be past dawn." He pointed out from behind her.

Returning the reigns to her hands, Alanna looked around for the first time since they had left. The streets that the mare ran through were empty of its normal crowds. In all the time she spent her life at Corus, she never had seen the streets this empty. Normally the time of day didn't matter, because there was normally at least a small crowd that lounged about. Yet now, there was not a living soul besides them. Absently, she slowed the horse down.

"Strange" she whispered as the mare rounded a corner, and right into an ambush.

Twelve men materialized from the darkness, all wielding daggers or swords. They were dressed in dark clothes and covered their faces with a cloth over their mouths and noses. One aimed a crossbow at her and fired.

Alanna managed to raise her sword just in time to deflect the arrow. Gripping the reigns one handedly, she threw the sheath to the side, freeing her blade. Three men advanced towards them, one of them having to dodge the sheath where it clattered to the streets, harmlessly.

The mare, unaccustomed to battles, reared up and Alanna felt George sliding backward. Fearing that he would pull her off, he released his hold on her and fell to the cobblestone street.

"George!" Alanna yelled as she tried to control the mare. One of the men grabbed hold of the side of her saddle, attempting to slice the thick leather with his dagger. Instead, her booted foot kicked him in the face, sending him falling backwards into one of his unfortunate comrades. Together they fell to the ground, yet two more took their place.

"Sons of a bitch!" she spat, slashing at them with her sword. Though she was trained to fight on horse back, the men not only outnumbered her, but she had to worry about her blind husband who was somewhere behind her. Not even just that, but her horse was growing more frenzied by the second.

A blade cut into her side, and Alanna cried out, both in pain and fury, bringing her own sword down onto the man's shoulder. He stumbled backwards holding his shoulder as blood poured from the wound. Alanna raised her sword, but the mare shifted nervously to the side, moving her from his range and she couldn't deliver the final blow.

Suddenly, someone grabbed her bridal, pulling the mare to a stop, "Alan!" George snarled, wielding a dagger. Alanna blinked at the use of her old name that she had used when she was masquerade as a boy in the palace, "Get out of here now! I'll take care of these thieves!"

"What are you saying? George—," but before she could demand what he was doing, George slapped the horse's behind, sending the mare into a gallop that took her away from him.

Alanna tried to turn the frantic mare around, but someone had cut the reigns, leaving Alanna unable to steer her mount. She could have thrown herself off the galloping horse, but George knew that she never would. Between saving her husband or her king, she would choose the latter. _It's my responsibility; I've sworn to protect Jon and the royal family at all cost. And as much as I hated to admit it, I can't go back to save George,_ she thought bitterly to herself.

Her stomach threatened to up heave, but it didn't matter. Her duty was first and foremost to the king, not her husband. She had made a promise out of blood to fulfill those obligations, and this was the price she had to pay. Yet even as she reminded herself of her oath, she felt her heart breaking, but this time she didn't know who was going to help her pick up the pieces.


	4. Chapter 2 Part 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from the world of Tortall, created by Tamora Pierce, except for this plotline and those in the Rogue Court**

**Author's note: Here is my third chapter (technically it's only the second…but you get my point ^^;) for **_**Where a Knight's Heart Lies,**_** and I hope you like it. As I've mentioned in the past, any reviews would be greatly appreciated!! **

**Random Extras: There will be a word I've defined at the bottom with * at the end of the words. You'll probably all know, but I put it there for more of a reminder.**

Chapter 2

Calmly standing in place, George's blind eyes followed his wife's mare, his left hand tightening on the reigns which he had cut from the bridle. _Don't forgive me_, he thought to himself darkly, _I'm not worth it_. Closing his eyes, George silently fumed, his head lowered as if in defeat. A sigh escaped his mouth.

_This wasn't supposed to happen, so why then, did all my intentions go awry?_ Shaking his already bowed head, it looked as if he had forgotten his present predicament, and the thieves mistook his silence to attack.

Two of them approached—moving quickly for their size—slashing their daggers at his side. Previously having sensed the movement of air around him, George leaned backwards, automatically lifting his leg up to knock the dagger from one of the outstretched hands of his opponents, but his attack missed by a good foot. Still though, he managed to chip the shoulder of the other thief sending him stumbling off to the side.

Unfortunately, that still left the first man, whose daggers slid down George's right arm, drawing blood. Pain flared up his arm but George managed to hold onto his own weapons. Instead, George began using the pain to his advantage, by instantly following the attack by feinting to the side in an injured fashion, fooling his enemy into attacking his open left side.

Without missing a beat, George's good arm twisted at a strange angle as did his body, creating an opening between his arm and torso where his opponent's arm slipped through. A grin appeared on his face—cruel and filled with malicious intent that hid beneath his hair—and allowing his body to turn slightly, George's arm suddenly wrapped around his captured prey's wrist. Chuckling to himself under his breath, George swung his left leg under the caught thief just as he jerked the man's wrist in the opposite direction, driving the now unbalanced man, to the ground. Still holding onto his opponent's wrist, George moved his damaged hand to grasp the other man's forearm giving him better leverage.

Just as the man who had fallen earlier had returned to his feet, George lifted his captive by the arm and threw him into the new approaching threat.

Now free of his prisoner, George wiped at the blood that ran down the side of his arm, ignoring the steady flow that came from a gash along his forehead. Mentally he cursed himself for slipping and allowing an opening in his guard.

The remaining nine out of the original twelve—one of which had been taken out by Alanna—all gathered around him in a lose circle. They were wielding daggers and swords, a few of which were dripping with blood, probably his own. But so were George's weapons as well.

"Heh…I guess you boys won't go easy on a stranger, huh?" he muttered trying to catch his breath. _Damn, I haven't practiced in awhile,_ he thought to himself, _but who, in my old age, would have thought that I'd ever find myself in such a position where I'd be young again and fighting alone._

Two of the men shifted, inching closer to him and said nothing in reply, "I take by your silence, that'd be a no." And again, there was no response.

He sighed, as if disappointed.

Leaning to the side, George suddenly lunged at them, aiming his daggers for the closest thief's legs. It wouldn't do him any good if he killed them.

Surprised by his leaping at them, the man—whom he attacked—fell back as George followed after him, slashing at the man with his weapons. He recovered from his initial surprise and began to parry George's ferocious attacks, managing to land a kick to George's stomach forcing the breath from his lungs. He gasped, collapsing to the ground.

He coughed as he rolled away from the spot where he had fallen, gaining distances between him and his attackers. Yet, as he moved, his back ended up pressed against a wall. He was cornered.

Gasping for breath, George leaned against a stone wall, sensing the thieves advancing towards his position. His chest heaved and his heart beat so loudly that he could've have sworn to the Trickster that they all could hear it. Blood kept running down the side of his face, and dripping into his eyes. But being blind, it caused nothing more than a slight annoyance than anything.

Silent as a grave, they moved closer to him, baring their daggers at the ready._ Damn_, he thought to himself, _why did I decide to do this again_?

George brought his arm to his face, wiping the blood away, "Why so serious, aren't we all friends here?" he asked, his breathing heavy and uneven. A sigh escaped his mouth as he leaned his head backwards to glare up at them with his new eyes. They froze in their actions, their gazes captured by his own.

"Shit" one of the men hissed, taking a step backwards.

"You tellin' me we got our asses kicked by a freaking blind man?!" another one muttered.

A sneer broke out onto George's face, but he suppressed the sudden urge to laugh at them.

"My, what an interesting custom you have here in Corus of greeting travelers," George replied absently, taking on a Carthack accent.

"Well, yer no travel'r." One man snarled back at him, "No way in all of Chaos yer from Carthack." The man, containing more of a back bone than the rest, slowly drifted closer him. He was bald, with a winding dragon tattoo climbing up the side of his face. He held a saber in his left hand, which he now pointed down at George, "No mere travel'r would know t' ways of t' Rogue's, an give us az signal tom bring you to t' King!"

"What ever do you mean" George returned, biting back a grin, "I'm just your humble traveler who got lost on my way here—"

"Shud up!" the bald man hissed as he pressed his weapon against George's throat.

George barred his throat to him, not really trying to hide his annoyance at the man, "True," he replied, dropping his act, "I am no Carthackian—and yes, I made the sign that reveled my intentions to see the King of the Court, but that did not mean you actually had to harm my companion and I. Has the Court changed so much that travelling rogues are no longer welcomed?"

The man raised an eyebrow, "You? Az travelling rogue? I doubt 'at"

"And why is that?" George inquired

" 'Cause why else wuld yur so called 'companion' run off in t' direction of King Jonathan?" he spat, his saliva landing on George's face, "Gat lost"

Wiping the spit from his face, George chuckled darkly, "Is that suppose to be a threat? You've got me so scared, I think I might be shitting myself"

"Why you fuckin jackass—" The bald man jerked his saber back enough to reverse the blade, aligning it along his arm threateningly.

George didn't even flinch, despite knowing what his enemy's next move would be. Because he knew something else that his attacker didn't—that his attack would never land on George.

And just as George had known, a hand shot out and grabbed the bald mans arm, holding him back, "Wait" the new voice ordered.

"Why t' hell shuld I?" he spat at his companion.

"Because, he has a point; we disregarded his request and attacked him. Lets hear his reasons—then we can kill him"

None of the thieves countered the order as the man who spoke took a step forward ahead of the rest. Cold brown eyes stared back down at George, studying the blind stranger who had made the signal of peace in the dead of dawn, a signal that was universal, for thieves that is. He held up his hand, stilling grasping a dagger, to his side forcing the others to stay in their current positions.

A gentle breeze came upon them at that point, brushing aside George's hair that had been stuck to his face, damp with sweat. His opponent on the other hand, who wore a skull cap, seemed calm and collected.

George almost felt bad that he had an advantage over him—almost.

Staring straight ahead, he opened his thoughts to his surroundings, subjecting his mind to a mental onslaught from the outside. Yet, he had mastered his power long ago; one must when born with the Sight*. Either that or they go insane; which left George without many choices.

Ignoring everything around him, including pain, sounds, and anything else, he focused on centered his power onto the individuals before him. Numerous thoughts began to drift through his head:

"_What the hell is this guy—" "—that bastard, when I get my hands on him—" "—that freakin' hurt!—" "—Why the hell did Bran stop us—" "—something isn't right—"_

His eyes, which had fallen close as he had concentrated, now snapped open; _Bran_, the name hung before him as if suspended by a magic thread,_ the leader's name is Bran_.

"Are you Bran?" George asked, his blind eyes staring directly into Bran's eyes.

Bran blinked, "You…how do you know my name?" _How does he know my name? Who sent him, did Alonn or maybe Trevor—he was always trying to steal my position_…

George ignored the rest of his thoughts, he himself quickly processing this new knowledge. _Clearly this "Alonn" is a man whom Bran respects_, George concluded in a matter of seconds, not wanting to seem suspicious, "I work for Alonn" He pulled himself into a more comfortable position, "I am known as a…collector of sorts, and was recently contacted by Alonn himself. That is why I signaled being a friend and not a foe. Yet you still had the nerve to attack me. Is this how you normally greet expected guests of your court?"

"…'expected guests' you say? How is it then, that I wasn't informed of your arrival?" Bran questioned, after a slight hesitation, _Alonn—I mean the King—never mentioned him_.

"What I am carrying is very valuable." George replied without missing a beat, "Do you honestly expect he could trust the likes of you?"

"Then how did you know my name?"

"I read your friend's minds—what do you think?" he shot back in a sarcastic voice, "The rogue king said that I had a high chance of running into you."

Behind Bran, another man scoffed, "T'en, w'at is t'e password?" George's blind head turned towards his voice, just as the man's thoughts drifted through his mind, _"lets see if he gets t'is one—'cause t'ere ain't no password!"_

_Idiot_, George thought to himself as he replied calmly, "What password?"

The entire group of thieves fell silent, staring at George intently. A cold breeze picked up at that time causing both sides to shiver. Finally, Bran growled, "Well then, I guess you're legitimate enough; we'll escort you to the Dove"

"Much thanks" George reached out with his hand expecting to have a hand extended to help him return to his feet, yet none was offered. Suppressing the urge to swear at their rudeness, George pushed himself away from the wall. As he stood up, he pictured his surroundings by stealing images from the thieves' minds.

Having the Sight, George had the ability to not only read minds, but also could break into someone's mind and use it to his will. He also, in a way that he never understood completely, could "borrow" their eyes. In the past though, he had thought it was a pointless ability, borrowing another's sight, yet now he was never more grateful. Being blind had not handicapped him, but made him only stronger. With his own eyes sightless, he could concentrate more on those around him, using his Sight past what he ever had been capable of before.

Yet now, he had to act still blind, "Mind giving me a hand here? I am blind after all"

They grumbled, but Bran barked out, "Liam! Help the man"

"Aye!" a youth's voice replied, sounding none too pleased. Still, a hand grabbed George's arm and began to drag him along the path. George said nothing, allowing the boy's thoughts enter his open mind.

"_Why do I have to help him? It isn't far how I always get the lame jobs—they wouldn't even let fight—"_

"Sir!" George's trance was cut off as Bran's voice broke through.

Rolling his shoulders blades and ignoring the loud and audible crack, he replied, "Are you referring to me?"

"Who else would I be?" Bran snapped back, "But, I was wondering, who were you riding with? Was it your partner?"

"Ah, of course, that must be explained. He's a knight to be exact, but you don't have to worry about h—him; he knows that I'm a 'trader' and as long as I don't cause him any problems, he helps me out." The boy who lead him, Liam, coughed in disbelief.

Both Bran and George turned to look at the youth, "What?" Bran demanded.

"A _knight_?" Liam shot back at George, "Why would a _knight_ of the realm help a thief like you? He didn't even look like a knight at all!"

Coldness spread throughout George's body as he listened to the boy, "What do you mean?" Bran asked before George could speak.

Liam removed his hand from George's arm, "If anything, it looked more like the Lioness long ago."

"The Lioness is in her sixties and you probably weren't even born when she was that young. So how would you know what she looked like?" George replied calmly.

"My grandma was there and she was a painter," he said, "she sold most of her work, but she kept her favorite. I've seen the picture and I swear that _knight_ looked just like her." George fell silent, not sure what to say. He had guess that she looked exactly the same, but he hadn't guessed anyone, let alone a child at that, would recognize her. Yet, when he hit the mare she was on and yelled out, "Alan," he hadn't even known he did it. But now, he was never more grateful for absentmindedness.

"His name, if you must know is Alan. He is a nephew of the Lioness, not her actual son though. It makes sense that you mistook him for her though." He answered with a smile.

Liam fell silent, but Bran who had been walking besides them froze, "Nephew you say?"

"Aye, that I did" George also stopped, confused by his question.

"I thought she only had one brother—the mage who died forty years ago, without an heir to take his place." The hairs on George's arms stood on end, _Shit_, he thought just as Bran's dagger was placed against his neck, "So tell me again, how he is related to her?"

"Did I say nephew? How inconsiderate of me. The lad is her distant cousin—" the dagger wrapped around his throat as Bran's hand grabbed a handful of George's hair, pulling back to bare the metal against the skin.

Hissing in his ear, Bran whispered, "No more lies, who the hell are you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Drop the god damn act!" Bran tightened his grip.

George sighed in defeat, but he was far from it. Closing his useless eyes, he centered his magic upon the man who held him with a dagger pressed to his throat. He envisioned his magic stretching behind him, engulfing Bran with it and penetrating his defenseless mind. His victim's will shattered beneath his power, like thin glass causing the thief to shudder.

"What…." He muttered aloud.

Ignoring his words, George entered the man's mind like an unwanted guest, yet the man was powerless against him. With his own magic, George roamed through his thoughts and emotions, even his memories. But he overlooked those, for his immediate concern was the dagger at his throat. His magic broke Bran's control over his own body and, instead George was now controlling it, much like a puppeteer would his puppet. A simple command had Bran's hand releasing the dagger and falling limp to the ground, his eyes wide open.

Around him, the thieves' thoughts seemed to be screaming, but George closed off his mind to them.

"Who…what are you?" Liam asked in horror, taking a step from him.

George grinned, "Now if I told you that, I'd have to cut off your ears"

*For anyone that has either forgotten or hasn't a clue, Sight is a rare magic that enabled the users a unique ability that differs from person. George's ability is to read the minds of those who have no magic of their own, he also possesses a few others which I won't mention at this point in time


	5. Chapter 2 Part 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from the world of Tortall, created by Tamora Pierce, except for this plotline and a few characters of my own creation.**

**Authors Notes: nothing important to report about this chapter, but please review!!**

Chapter 3

_I'm going to kill who ever cut those reigns_, Alanna thought to herself as she peered around the corner, only to find an empty corridor; _maybe I'll cut out their heart while I'm at it._

Alanna, knowing full well that she never would do such a thing, was slightly comforted by the morbid thought. And as much as she wanted to hate this curse, she was actually enjoying being young again. She wasn't sure how, but all past injuries she had sustained had vanished as well, as if they never had happened; her wrists no longer shook under the weight of a sword and she now she could breathe easily, despite wearing such heavy chain mail.

Part of her wanted to thank Roger, but she'd never actually admit to such a thing. He'd cursed her for a reason, and she'd bet her life that her enjoying it was part of his plan—whatever that may be.

Her foot steps hardly made a sound as she begun to move through the hallway. Yet, as she crept along, she couldn't help but feel the sensation of being watched. Every moment or so, Alanna would paused to glance over her shoulder only to find that no one was there, unless the pictures of past rulers counted.

_Look at me_, Alanna thought to herself spitefully, _the once world renowned Lioness scared of a few paintings; I'm just glad George won't see me like—_her heart seemed to suddenly move to her throat, making it hard for her to breath.

"Shit" she hissed at herself, freezing in mid-step, "Shit-shit-shit" Alanna bit her lip as she placed her hand against the closest wall, all the while trying to stop the tears that were beginning to build behind her eyes.

_If I start to think of him, I'll go back to him and leave Jonathan—who I am honor bound to serve and protect at all costs. Don't think about anyone else, no one else matters, no one! _

She remained there for several moments, trying to control her frantic heart. It had hurt her when she abandoned George, but he knew—always knew—that her duty placed Jonathan before him. She just wished, more than anything, that she could rest easy knowing that George would be fine, despite his being blind and all.

_No, I can't think of that now! He'll be just fine, and once this whole ordeal is over, we'll all laugh at it—_

She wiped the tears that formed at the corner of her eyes, refusing to think what would happen if this nightmare never ended, or if George really did die—_Stop it!, _she commanded herself. _It doesn't help me to consider those things right now! _

With a trembling breath, Alanna pushed herself away from the wall and once more began to walk down the passage, her head held high. And despite her short height, she moved quickly, moving closer to her current goal: the King's Chambers.

Fingering the hilt of her sword, strapped at her waist, absently, Alanna began to run through her options concerning her next course of action. The King's chambers were normally guarded by three knights, who might pose a problem. Normally, she would just go up to them and demand them to allow her to enter, but in this state, sadly no one would recognize her. Maybe a few of her old friends might, but even that would be pushing her luck; after all, it had been long ago that she had looked like she did presently and most of them, who had known her then, had passed on into the hands of the God of Death.

Alanna was alone now, now that George was gone.

_I bet Roger planned this—alienate us from all our connections, and then separate George from me. He wants us to suffer, all of us,_ she bitterly thought to herself, as she walked. But even as she came to that conclusion, she couldn't shake the feeling that, that wasn't half of Roger's plan. And it left a sour taste in her mouth.

Around her, the corridor began to widen in length and height. Draperies which were hung from the ceiling, in deep reds and gold, came to a rest an inch or so above the old wooden floors. And the further she moved, the fewer paintings appeared upon the sides. Instead statues filled the space, showing off previous kings and their champions. Her own statue was placed here as well, but Alanna hardly spared a second glance at her former image during a victory, shortly after she had saved Tortall. Alanna never had been one for self glory, and even as she hurried past the statues, she recalled a woman that had insisted that she have Alanna model for one of her paintings. After that, the woman had a field day, idolizing every victory in her paintings of the "Lioness." Soon after, Alanna couldn't even go into a home that didn't have at least one picture of her self.

Shaking her head, Alanna mentally scolded herself for allowing her mind to drift off in such a tangent. It wouldn't do her any good if she was caught off guard while she was "thinking." She'd never forgive herself if someone attacked her, and she failed to save Jon.

Alanna froze, her mind suddenly going blank. She had thought something had been strange when she entered the palace, but didn't pay much heed to the sensation. But now she was regretting not paying attention to it, because now she knew—and how she didn't before was beyond her comprehension.

The place was empty

She had yet to cross paths with any guard, servant, or any resident; a very rare occurrence in such a busy palace. It was the same thing in the town, not one person had been out, except for those thieves. In her entire life, Alanna had never known the capital of Tortall to be so empty.

Absently, Alanna began to move faster, _Roger must be behind this as well—what the hell is he planning this time?_

The corridor took a sharp turn, which Alanna hardly noticed as she moved along with the floor, despite the wall scones having been removed. Suddenly though, her foot slipped from beneath her and Alanna was sent flying only to land upon her face.

She landed in a large puddle of some liquid, her face and most of her torso was soon drenched in whatever it was, _I just keep getting more and more pathetic, don't I?_ Alanna's mouth twisted in disgust after she opened her mouth to sigh and instead got some of what ever she had slipped in into her mouth.

Gagging, she spat off to the side, "What the hell was that?" Still coughing, Alanna pulled herself onto her knees and covered her mouth with her hands. Once she stopped gagging, she looked down at the floor on which she had slipped.

It was too dark to see what she had slipped on or whatever she had landed in but she didn't hesitate to summon light into her palm, throwing the room into a harsh purple light. But nothing strange met her eyes, just the same curtains, floor, and statues—nothing new there. Her eyes, satisfied with her surroundings, glanced at the puddle around her.

A puddle of a dark red surrounded her, accompanied with some other strange slush. Whatever it was, it gave off a very distinct odor, a very familiar odor. Her mind, trying to recall where she had smelled it from before, snapped to all the wars where she had served as the commander; where she had helped heal the soldiers that were injured or at least making them comfortable as they died before her. That smell then was almost identical with what she now smelt.

It was blood, a puddle of blood, and the sludge was some organ liquid. Just thinking about it made her stomach quench. Doubling over, she held her stomach back and managed to stop the vomit that threatened to come from it.

Alanna had seen many things during her life and the last time her stomach threatened to heave was during the war she had attended while serving as Jonathan's squire. Back then, he had held her head as she threw up. But since then, she had sworn to herself not to make herself so vulnerable before him ever again. So why now was her body rebelling?

_And where_, she suddenly thought to her self, _did that come from_?

Once more she glanced up, but she saw no body—or bodies for that matter—besides statues.

Suddenly her mind went blank, …_why are there so many statues? _There were more than ever before she realized and she doubted that they had this many installed since her last visit only a week before the present. And these statues weren't anything like the rest; where the normal ones were standing in a position of triumph, they were frozen in action, like servants.

Her heart began to beat faster as things began to fall into place in her mind: _sense of being watched, yet the entire place being empty—too many statues_. . .

Slowly, Alanna turned her head, her eyes following the pale light from her hand as it fell upon a statue that had fallen upon the ground and had shattered—two in fact had shattered—and from the stone pieces dripped blood along with other substances. Her eyes, entranced with some morbid curiosity, studied the statue carefully, only to realize that the stones were hollow while the insides obviously were not.

Tearing her eyes from the sight, Alanna rested on her hands and knees. Her breathing became fast as her heart's beating spiked.

"This isn't happening" she whispered, trying to calm herself, "This is all a bad dream, a nightmare, and soon I'll wake up—"

"Grampa?" a child's scared voice spoke up, breaking through her thoughts. Alanna looked up slowly, only to find a small child standing before her, holding a blanket in his small hand. Coal black hair stuck out at odd angles from his head, as if he had just been asleep, and his tousled cloths proved it. Dark blue eyes stared passed her rimmed by skin so pale and perfect, that if anyone who didn't know better might mistake the child for a cherub. But Alanna knew the boy, who looked no more than four years of age.

"Isaac?" she whispered to her godchild, "Isaac, is that you?"

"Grampa! Where are you? I'm scared!" Isaac cried, rubbing the blanket against his eyes, "I'm…I'm scared!"

"…Isaac?" Alanna reached out to comfort the frightened child, but her arms passed right through his body. He was a ghost.

Goosebumps spread across her body as she passed through him, but he felt nothing of her and continued to cry, "So scary—Grampa, why aren't you here? He said he was gonna kill me, Grampa, he said he was!" tears were pouring down his face and the blanket was held forgotten in his hand, "Grampa?!"

"No…" she tried to reach out to him again, to the specter of Jonathan's grandchild, but once again her hand passed through, "Wha-what man, Isaac? Who told you that you'd die? Isaac?"

Suddenly a scream—more of a roar—echoed through out the palace. And this the ghost of Isaac noticed.

"Grampa?" he asked aloud, before he broke out into a run, completely catching Alanna by surprise, "Grampa!" Alanna, momentarily forgetting the statues and the mess of body fluids, scrambled to her feet in pursuit of Isaac. Right on his heels, she ran down the corridors, hardly sparing a glance at the humans trapped in stone. She'd save them later.

Then to her annoyance, the ghost ran right through a wall, leaving Alanna on the other side.

"Damn it" she hissed as she barely managed to stop herself from colliding into the wall. But instead of wasting her time to destroy the wall, she turned to the left and headed toward the next door way: The Kings Chambers, after all that's the wall where the boy's ghost had passed through.

This time though, when she was confronted with bodies, she wasn't so surprised. Except, these corpses were still humans and not made of stone. And they had been cut down by a sword of some kind. Slowing to a walk, Alanna noticed how the bodies had fallen away from the entrance to Jon's chambers, as if they had been attacked by someone that had left the room.

Walking over to the bodies of the guards, she knelt next to one and felt for a pulse, but as she had assumed, there was none. Standing up and about to leave the scene, the other guard groaned. Bending down, Alanna grabbed his shirt. She hauled him up so she could look into his eyes, "Who did this?" she hissed.

His eyes fluttered and his hand rose to his temple, "Don't…I don't know. We heard—"he coughed blood into his hand, "—screams from his Highness' chamber…then before we knew it, the doors flew up and we were attacked…" his eyelids fluttered again; he was losing conscious.

"Where did they take the King? Where is Jonathan?!" Alanna roughly shook the guard.

"Only one person attacked…" the guard managed to mumble before he died.

Her eyes blinked, before she realized that he had just died in her hands, "No you don't! Tell me!" she yelled at his corpse, but of course, it didn't respond to her demands. A shaky breath escaped from her mouth and she gently lowered his body to the blood soaked floor. It slumped to the floor, looking more like a rag doll than a human being.

She hesitated for a moment, fighting the urge to lay them out in a more common fashion, but her nerves refused to let her. After all, whatever—or more accurately, whoever—did this to the guards and the rest of the palace was after Jonathan. He could be in some sort of peril, _correction—he is_, and where was his champion? Making the dead more comfortable.

"I'm coming, Jon, just hold out a little longer" she spoke aloud, reminding herself of her duty. With a deep breath, she stood up and entered her friend's room.

Jon had always been one for order, and ever since Queen Thayet had passed away, he blatantly refused to change anything in their room, fearing that if he did he could lose all traces of his late wife.

But the room she stood in now looked as if a tornado had erupted suddenly. The book shelves that once lined the far wall were empty of any books, having all its contents thrown carelessly across the floor. The large canopy bed, where he refused to sleep—ever since he had woken up with a corpse—was splintered, the curtains shredded to nothing. All other furniture was over turned, with broken or cracked legs. Glass littered the floor, sparkling from the glow that the lit fireplace emanated. The portrait that had been painted on their wedding day was sliced diagonally across from one side to the other, right through Thayet's lovely face.

Only one thing had remained untouched as it lied undisturbed among the disorder of her dresser: Her golden crown. Unlike all the other pieces of her jewelry that clearly had been smashed, it hadn't been touched. Drifting closer, Alanna studied it, and came to realize that her first assumption had been wrong; it wasn't completely unscathed. On closer inspection, one thing marred its surface—a stain of blood.

Slowly, she reached out with her hand, "Jonathan" Alanna whispered, picking up the crown to cradle it in her arms, "where are you?"

Behind her, the door she entered slammed shut, making Alanna jump, "What the hell?" she spun around, running towards the door. But it was locked, and wasn't budging any time soon.

Sighing, Alanna rested her back against the door and slid down to the floor, wishing once more that all of this could be just a bad dream. Her eyes, focusing on the ceiling, began to drift down scanning the room until it came upon something that she somehow had missed from her previous inspection.

The secret passage way behind the book case was opened. Not only that, but a bloody hand print marred the wall next to the opening.

"Strange, I don't recall that being there" she remarked to herself as she pushed herself off the floor and headed towards the opening. _Wait, he said only one man left, right?_ She thought to herself after she had taken a few steps, _then that means Jonathan could have escaped._

The passage way was small and it led into the darkness, "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" her sarcasm was a pathetic attempt to mask her dread at entering the secret passage. In hope to dispel the uneasiness, she called forth a small flame in her hand. The light drove the shadows back, but not far enough to her liking.

Low ceilings almost had her head touching the moldy stones that made it up. A stale air, which now was disturbed by her entrance after years of being untouched, hung in the air surrounding her, making it harder to breathe. Not to mention the small space it provided, even for someone of her slim build.

_It's a good thing that I'm not claustrophobic,_ she grimly thought as she began to walk downward into the shadows. Yet even as she thought it she knew it wouldn't have mattered anyway, she would have force herself to go through for Jonathan's sake; she'd go to the end of the world if need be to get him back. Even so far as challenging the God of Death if He dared to steal Jon from her again, like He almost did during the Sweating Sickness.

It was that thought that truly made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, not the cold dampness that seemed to be seeping into her bones.

Absently, the light in her palm grew to illuminate the next few stairs before her, as the passageway curled around a stone pillar before falling into the dimness which only receded at every step she took. Quickening her pace, she tried to recall where this let out. _If I remembered correctly, it should take me to the catacombs where another secret door in one of the crypts would be leading out of the palace in an underground tunnel._ Alanna had guessed earlier that she'd end up far away from where she'd probably need to be, but this had been her only way of escaping, since the other had been strangely locked shut. Besides, she still didn't have a clue to where Jon would be held, if who ever attacked him managed to get out with him—

_Wait, none of this makes sense_, she paused with one foot half way raised, _that guard said that _**only**_ one man attacked them; _**only**_ one escaped before I arrived. But I didn't see any sign of forced entry in his rooms, no blood except for the guards which lead away from there. _**Only**_ one man left—one man…shit_

With a new fear blooming in her chest, Alanna began to run as fast as one could down the twisting staircase. Her sword slowed her down some since it kept scrapping against the stone walls until she removed it—sheath and all—from her belt and carried it in her free fist. Thayet's Crown, now long forgotten, was buried against her stomach with her other arm like a vice, as if her subconscious believed that she'd die if she let it go.

After what seemed to take hours, Alanna finally reached the bottom of the passage where it ended abruptly it a circular shaped room. Containing similar low ceilings as the passage way, the room was made with rough stones that had drops of moisture dripping off. Not bothering to spare a second thought on where the condensation appeared from, she turned her attention before her. In the center of the room was a hole with a three feet diameter. Without pausing to think, she jumped through the hole, clutching sword and crown to her chest.

Bending her knees slightly as her feet made contact with the ground, just as her old master and past lover Liam had shown her, she managed to roll off to the side, landing safety.

The room which she had jumped into was small and, again, shared the same quality as the room and passage way above: a low ceiling._ I wonder if they had midgets building this palace_, she mused. Rising up to her feet, she dusted the dirt and grime off her pants that had attached themselves during her interruption into their lair. The said dust rolled off her with ease, falling slowly to settle once more on the strangely tiled floor. A simple design with a circle within a circle, within another circle drew her eyes to where a stone coffin was awkwardly placed in the center of the room, its lid lain across it. Between the lid and coffin were cracks that lead to a darkness that her magic couldn't penetrate unless she truly wanted to break the spell that hid yet another secret exit. Except that, that exit lead under the castle walls and into the Royal Forest.

And that wasn't her destination nor was it her objective.

Jonathan was; she knew—without truly understanding how—that she would find Jon somewhere in Corus, in this very palace, and not the forest. What she didn't know though, was how long it would take to find him. But she had to do it soon; because if her fears held any bit of truth, it had been Jonathan who attacked those guards. For whatever motive pushed him to commit such a sin, Alanna couldn't fathom—not that she want to—but it was the only reason that made any sense. All she did understand was that Jon would never do it unless something terrible happened to him in the first place and thought he had to escape at all means.

In the back of her mind, she wondered if the ghost of Isaac, his grandchild, had any thing to do with it. And if that was the case, and she truly wished that it would be, there would only be one place Jonathan would feel safe; a haven for his mind.

And how convenient was it that his so called haven would be exactly where she eventually would end up once she left the tomb? _A highway to hell, if you ask me_, she thought grimly. Because where his haven was, was her hell.

The place where Roger had originally been buried, where he had been awoken from his eternal-damned "slumber" and then returned there to die again with Alanna's sword impaling him by his own spell; where all the kings and queens of the past had been laid to rest along with all those that died within the palace walls if their bodies weren't claimed by anyone else. Thayet's cold body was placed somewhere in these walls as well and besides her was a space that Jonathan would one day be placed to join her in the next world.

Yet it was the place she knew that she'd find her king, because for some morbid reason, he found himself at peace when surrounded by the dead. It was something that Alanna never understood.

The door that lead from this tomb to the main path in the catacombs was left slightly ajar though one could only tell that if they were inside, she recalled. But it would be hard to find since it was dark outside, meaning that no light would slip into this room through that crack.

…_No light outside…?_

Alanna blinked, _why weren't the scones lit?_ It was the Tortallian tradition to leave them burning to show their respect for the dead. That way, incase any spirits were allowed to return to the mortal world for a period of time, they would have a light to guide them home.

Yet they weren't burning, which made no sense.

_None of this makes sense_, she groaned in her mind as she opened her hand, allowing her magic to bathe the entire room in light. Her eyes hurt at the sudden brightness ruining her night vision and forcing her to wait until they were normal once again. As the blots disappeared from her eyes, she began to turn in a circle looking for the exit.

_There—_across from her current position she could see the wall angling outward away from the normal position of the stones. Her boots hardly made a sound as she moved closer to study the door where the stone left a slight gap. Its purpose, if she recalled correctly, was to allow light to come in, that way, if someone wished to leave from that way they'd be able to locate it and move it with their own strength.

Unfortunately, Alanna didn't have enough time to move it with her strength—which, though she hated to admit, would probably take some time—or with her magic. _Besides,_ she sighed to herself, _I'm small enough that I can probably slip through._

It took her a few moments to wrestle her way through the slight opening it gave her, but Alanna had always been thin and tiny, making it much easier for her than say Raoul or Gary, _but they'd have moved it in the first place anyways_. Maybe, the thought occurred to her, that George could, slip through but not 'cause he was thin as herself but he once had the uncanny ability to contort his body in ways that made her question if he had a spine at all—

Suddenly, her body locked in place, "_Damn it_—Alanna don't think of him!" she whispered aloud as her feet had suddenly taken root to the spot, her body half way through the opening, "Jon comes first! The King is always first!" But no matter what she said, her body refused to obey her commands; _apparently_, she thought, it's_ in league with my heart_—her broken and still bleeding heart, "George knew that this day would come; he knew that one day I'd save Jon rather than him! It is my duty, my obligation…my—my honor"

A sob broke forth from her control, echoing strangely throughout the empty hallway. Her knees shook violently before giving out from beneath her frozen stance away from the wall and into the hallway. But as her body fell, her right foot became trapped, and in consequence was twisted in the process.

Pain shot up her leg, but it wasn't what brought the tears to her violet eyes. _None of that mattered any longer. _

All that mattered to her now was her counter part, her other half could be lying in the streets of the oddly empty Corus, breathing for the last time.

She remembered those stubborn tears that had run down her face when the stupid mare refused to stop as it took her away from him. To her, it had felt as if a part of her was gone—like some part of her had been torn from her brutally, leaving the wound wide open and bleeding—the only part that had kept her sane all those years. George had always been her pillar of sanity during those hard years as a page then as a squire, and even afterwards. He never blamed her when she ran, or even when she abandoned him to go off on her selfish adventures. Instead, he would wait for her return from where ever her adventures took her, with his crooked smile on his face; he'd pick her up, and twirl her around in his arms like she was the world to him. Just as he was the world for her, but now he was gone and probably dead.

_Dead_

Her emotions gripped her tightly, that she almost missed the whining cry of Isaac's ghost, "Grampa, where are you? I need you—I'm so scared!" His childish words wove into her mind, ringing clearly, _need you_.

…_Needs Me…_

Focusing her mind on that action, she waited till all tears subsided. She envisioned Jonathan before her, and then added her own three children along with all her friends. _They all need me,_ she scolded herself,_ but not just them, the entire kingdom needs me_.

_George needs me_

A new resolution burning freshly in her mind, she pushed herself to her knees. Her forgotten pain came back with vengeance, making her wince. Cutting off a gasp by viciously biting her lower lip, she bent to the side in order to inspect her entrance way from which her foot had been caught. Alanna had to summon more magic to her palm, for when she had collapsed her previous spell had shattered.

With new light, she turned her head to look at where she had slipped through. The opening was small and the cut uneven, which is how her foot got caught in the first place when she fell. Alanna took a deep breath and lifted her entrapped foot slightly, but received an intensified wave of agony from her leg instead. Wiping the perspiration that appeared on her forehead for her pains with her left hand, she successfully—if not painfully—removed her captured foot in a slow fashion. Once clear of the hole, she inspected herself.

Her foot had swollen slightly and was already turning a deep black, but it wasn't broken. Badly sprained perhaps, but not broken. Yet to heal it completely could take days, even with her magic, that is, if she wanted to heal it properly.

But she didn't have enough time to wait around for it to heal completely. _There's no time, I guess I'll have to do a quick heal and hope the pain will subside for the time being._

Pressing her forehead to her knee cap, Alanna released her spell of light and instead began to summon her seemingly never-ending magic from her core, directing it into her leg. To the normal eye, it looked like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. But if one could see magic, they'd see her violet magic dripping from her hands and even her forehead to soak her injured leg. And like a sponge, the magic was absorbed through her skin.

"So mote it be" she whispered, ending the healing spell. A sigh escaped her mouth as she leaned backwards and flexed her toes. They didn't hurt—_For now,_ she added silently.

She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Her magic was slowly fading but still there tingling around her leg. She waited until the feeling of her magic vanished completely before rolling forward onto the balls of her feet. Silently, she sent a prayer of thanks to her patron when her injured foot held and didn't collapse beneath her weight.

Despite that though, she still was cautious as she shifted, using her arms to balance her, but moved too fast and tumbled forward. Her hands shot out to catch her and did, but just happened to brush against something and whatever it was, she heard it clamber across the floor from her touch. Alanna blinked, slightly confused.

Knees resting on the ground, she extended a hand out in search of what she had felt. Her fingers closed around a sharp round piece of metal. It was Thayet's crown.

"What the—" she whispered, wondering why she even brought it with her in the first place.

Then she remembered her sword. Obviously she had dropped them when she had fallen, so the sword should be near where the crown was, and sure enough, only a few further laid her sword, sheath and all.

Releasing a breath she didn't know she was holding, Alanna buckled her sword back onto her belt. She grasped the crown in her left hand, and used her right to push her off the ground.

This time, she managed to remain standing.

With a deep breath, she slowly began to make her way forward, placing one foot in front of the other. Her earlier spell of illumination, which she had to release in order to work on her leg, eagerly sprang to life as she summoned it again. As it began to reappear in her right palm, she pointed two of her finger aiming at the wall scone she now was able to see and forced her magic from her fingers to the scone. It caught instantly and began to burn brightly.

As she continued down the passage she left burning scones in her wake, still wondering as to why they all were out. But she didn't linger on that thought for long, not when she had a King to find.

Her foot steps were soft, yet they still made the walls ring with a gentle padding noise. Even her heart beat seemed to be loud to her own ears, beating frantically like a trapped bird in a cage.

Suddenly, cool air caressed her face, accompanied with a scent of power drifting through it. It made her pause at the sudden urge to sneeze. She reached up to scratch her sensitive nose. For some strange reason, still unknown to her, she was extremely sensitive when it came to magic, for when ever it was in use—whether it was her own or another—it almost always made her sneeze.

The fact that she now wanted to sneeze, could only mean one thing.

"Jon?" she called out as she took one step, her nose twitching.

Though there was no response that answered her, she could tell that he was near. Alanna had known Jonathan since she was ten years old, and the magic that she now faintly sensed was definitely his. He was close by.

Glancing over her shoulder, she began to walk faster until eventually she broke out into a full out run.

_Screw it all, I can't waste anymore time!!_, "JONATHAN!" she screamed as loud as she could, "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?! IT'S ME, ALANNA!"

Still no one answered her;_ it's like a ghost town, ha ha, ghost town—while I'm in a catacomb, how ironic,_ she thought dryly as she ran.

Soon she came to the end of the hallway where it suddenly opened up into a large room where a winding staircase winded up the side of the opposite wall. Her throat went dry as she stared at it.

Taking small steps, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the stairs. How could she when Isaac's ghost stood at the top? It was evident that Jonathan was up there, otherwise why else would the child's ghost lead her there? But that wasn't what scared her.

Roger's final grave was up there.

Her body suddenly became numb, and she felt as if she had fallen back into the past. How long ago was it that she climbed these exact same stairs, not knowing if she would survive another duel with the Duke? With the fate of all of Tortall—the knowledge that if she failed everyone she loved would perish—resting on her slim shoulders, she now wondered how she had done it before. True, Jonathan had needed her then as well, and that had given her enough strength to kill Alex, a good friend of Jonathan and herself who had betrayed them, and then Alanna went on to kill Roger. But this time she was trying to find Jonathan and her body kept freezing up. _What's wrong with me? Nothing can be as bad as Roger, yet why is my body freezing on me like this?_

It took some time to convince her body to move forward, but she still managed to reach the top. By the time she had, her spelled foot began to throb gently, not enough to stop her but enough to give her a slight limp in her steps.

Before she reached the last step, Alanna closed her eyes tightly, not wanting to look at what was before her. She didn't want those past events to play again before her, not when she had been so close to death that day—leaving a scar on her mental state at the present.

With a deep breath, she opened one eye. The floor was the same, still inscribed with the symbols that originally would've destroyed Tortall if Alanna hadn't been able to stop Roger and if Jon hadn't been powerful enough to hold the land together until she had completed the task.

She decided to open her other eye, _after all, the past's the past—isn't it? What's there to fear when the threat was dispelled decades ago?_

Both eyes open, she studied the all too familiar emblem. At the center of those symbols stood a charred mass that anyone ignorant of the truth would have assumed to be a random rock with a sword stuck through it. But those that did know the truth, mainly she and Jon, knew that it had once been a human body, the body of the Duke of Conté.

Absently, she began to venture further into the room. She paused outside the circle, purely out of habit. Back then though, she had known that if she had taken just one step into it, Roger would have won in an instant.

It still made her shudder as she passed over it now, even though the intoxicating magic it once possessed lay dormant and lost.

As she approached the charred remains of her enemy, she became aware that something wasn't quite right. Tilting her head to the side, she began to circle around the mass. Then she saw it—or at least the emptiness of it.

Her pulse soared. The sword, her sword that had killed Roger, was missing.

"What—?" she stared in amazement at the missing blade, formally named Lightening. Rubbing her eyes, she tried to look again, but the blade still was missing.

_But how? I tried removing it hundreds of times, along with Raoul, Jon, Gary, and George—who were much stronger than myself—but none of us had been successful._ _Yet now it vanished, as if it never had been there in the first place?_

Her hand stretched out to hover where the hilt of her beloved blade once rested. It was strange to see it not there. For a few moments she just stood there, blankly staring at the charred mass. Her nose itched and for the first time, Alanna realized that a slight magic pulse was radiating from it.

But it wasn't what she had sensed before.

"What's going on here?" she whispered to herself.

"That's what I want to know, bitch" a cold voice mocked from behind Alanna, making her blood run cold. When it spoke again, it hissed, "Who the hell do you think you are to invade this sanctuary?"

Sharp metal came into contact with the back of her throat and rested there. Alanna swallowed, "I'm looking for someone," she replied automatically.

"Aren't we all?" the voice, deep and resonating throughout the room, definitely was a male's. Gradually he applied pressure to the blade, opening a small wound on her neck. Blood began to trickle down her back, causing her to shiver.

The man laughed coldly, "Not much of a screamer, are you? What's your name?"

She hesitated, biting her lip as she thought, _Can't say that I'm Alanna, the King's champion, now can I?_

"Answer me!" he demanded of her, "Tell me who you are that you dare enter the ground of _my_ cousin's demise?!"

Her body stiffened at his words, causing the blade to cut in deeper, yet Alanna felt nothing of it, nor the throbbing in her leg. Only the blood draining from her face was she able to sense. Her heart beat seemed to be beating loudly once again in her ears, drowning out whatever his next words were. Then pain, radiating from her neck, broke through her panic.

About to speak she licked her dried lips just as before her on the charred mass, Isaac's spirit—which had vanished when she had cleared the stair case—appeared with a cruel grin on his angelic face. And before her eyes he turned to smoke, leaving behind a red pulsing magic and a harsh laughter which belonged to a grown man and not a child.

_Goddess—no_

"Jon…Jonathan?" she whispered, her own voice cracking as she spoke after a moments hesitation; apparently he hadn't seen his grandchild's illusion or what ever it had been that had lead her here. _Please, Goddess, don't let me be right_…

"I didn't ask you for my name," He growled, his voice growing vaguely louder as he stepped closer to her, "I asked for yours. So if you want to live, and cling to your pathetic life—at least what's left of it—you'll tell me your name, or I'll sever your head from that small body of yours"

A small cry, slightly muffled making it sound like a strangled person's wail, came from her throat,_ That's his voice, I'm positive! That's Jon's voice_!

"Five seconds, wench until your head flies"

_But how is this possible? He can't be serious, can he?_, her mental voice screamed; where as physically, she remained silent, hardly able to control the gradually building tension working up her body.

"Five" Jon hissed as the sword began to drag across her skin to her left shoulder, drawing blood in its path, "Four"

_He won't do it; Jonathan could never kill another being out of cold blood_

"Three" his blade came to a halt right at the base of her neck, where her skin connected her shoulder to her throat, "Better hurry and answer me—Two" the sword pressed into her throat and Alanna gasped.

Realizing that he was completely serious about his threat to take her life, Alanna yelled, ignoring the blood that seeped from her palm as she clenched her fist, still holding the metal crown, "Jonathan! It's me, Alanna—"

Jon's sword stopped as did the pressure. An unnatural silence fell in its wake, making the hairs on her arm stand on end. Finally, after suppressing the urge to turn around, she heard his sword's point as it touched the stone floor with a metallic click, "Alanna?" he whispered.

A sigh of relief escaped from her mouth, "Yes, it's me—Alanna. Your friend—"

"Wrong answer"


	6. Chapter 2 Part 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from the world of Tortall, created by Tamora Pierce, except for this plotline and those in the Rogue Court**

**Authors Note: This is the fourth Chapter in my story, Sorry it took so long for me to post it. Anyways, please review!**

**Random Extras: Like in the second chapter, I defined a word at the bottom. Its basically a definition for those curious. Other than that, enjoy!**

Chapter 4

The Dancing Dove was busy as ever, filled to the brim with thieves, cutthroats, pit pockets, and freelance mercenaries. Slight alternations had occurred over the years, subtle to a regular but to anyone who hadn't set a foot inside for years was certain to feel a shock. Especially since the latest owner of the Dancing Dove was a young lady that went by the name of Mistress Scarlet, who saw it her life's goal to update the inn with the newest fashions.

After a fire, that took place a decade or so ago, Mistress Scarlet came to the city of Corus and tricked the past owner on his death bed for the deed to the inn. But that was when the Court of Rogue's currently inhabited a tavern, due to the past owner's debts and erotic habits. Once she came, though, they eagerly returned to Dove.

Now, the floors were daily polished to make the reddish wood stand out, complementing the black wall paper that adorned the three walls. The front of the inn contained numerous panels of opaque glass with a barrier of steel mesh surrounding it. A large brick fire place was at one end where an elegant table sat before it. The fire roared hungrily behind it all, casting the room into shadows while at the same time giving off enough heat to keep the place at a decent temperature. Furniture was strategically positioned around the room, leaving a large opening in the center and other tables and chairs situated along the walls. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, now and then begun to sway as the wind that was carried into the room by the opening and closing of the main entrance. Not that much more people could fit inside the inn, or did they want to. Normal folks steered clear of the thieves hang out, fearing the loss of their purse—or worse, their lives.

A woman entered this room, of reasonable height and build, but was—without a doubt—the most beautiful woman in the entire room, and moved with a grace that seemed almost angelic like. Yet, despite her angel face with dark brunette curls falling down to her slim waist, her eyes held a look of pure cruelty and cunning that drove even the assassins and rapists away. Her green pupils seemed to be bottomless wells that no one dared challenge, for fear of vanishing in their depth.

As she moved, her hips swayed—and though they feared her wrath—men couldn't help but be entranced as she passed on her way to the large table before the fire place.

"Alonn," she whispered seductively as she approached the handsome man at the table, "How can you stand this intolerable lot?"

The man, who—when compared to the beauty before him—looked pale, glanced up at her, his golden eyes regarding her coldly, "Well, if it isn't the Mistress herself. What brings you here, I would of thought you'd have taken three men to your room by now…or maybe you did, but they didn't sate your need?" he sneered.

Pursing her lips that could have made even the hardiest soldier melt before her, she placed her hands on her hips, "For you're information, I was just assaulted by your lackeys."

"But I'm sure you didn't mind" he muttered under his breath.

"That's not the topic we're discussing, Alonn; quite the contrary in fact. It seems to me that you are too lenient towards your people and to be honest, it's an insult to call you a king—what with weak leadership and all."

The corner of his mouth twitched, "Scarlet, be glad that the only reason you still are living is because you own the Dove. But let me remind you, the moment you slip up, you're heart shall be missing from your chest only to be found on the dirty floor with a dagger through it." His voice, despite such a grotesque scene it depicted, was calm and emotionless, holding a sort of compelling tone in it.

Mistress Scarlet, seemingly unfazed by his threat, replied in a lascivious voice, "Come now; don't deny your desires any longer, Alonn. I know that through all those ominous words, your body longs to be intertwined with mine, feeling me wrap my legs around your strong torso…"As if trying to prove her point, she lifted the layers of material that made up her skirt, reveling porcelain pale skin beneath, "Our heavy breathing mixed with the redolent aroma from our love making—"

"Enough!" Alonn's voice was hardly more than a whisper, but Scarlet heard it clearly, "Don't push your luck as it is, you whore, or else my threats just may become reality"

For a moment, Scarlet's face twisted into an unrecognizable mask of rage but as soon as it appeared it was gone, replaced with a fan that she brought up to fan herself, "Don't think you are the only one who can throw around threats. Just you wait, and let's see if you can still say that in the end."

Snapping the fan shut, she turned away just as a cruel and maleficent grin grew on her face. _And trust me, that end isn't far away, Alonn_, she thought to herself, making her way through the crowd.

'_In the end'?_, Alonn watched as Mistress Scarlet left. He watched as her hand reached out and tapped a man's shoulder. Without another hint, the eager old man followed her as she opened the door for him. He went through, not even pausing to consider what he was getting himself into. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she playfully pushed him through and began to shut the door, but turned her head at the last second.

She winked at Alonn, her green eyes blazing across the room into his own golden eyes. Then she blew him a kiss before vanishing behind the closing door.

"Whore" Alonn muttered to the air around him as he took a mouthful of his ale.

"Aye, but a damn good looking one" a new man replied him, sending a wistful look towards the door, "I mean, I've seen some that are just hideous. It always made me wonder how they stay in business"

Alonn rolled his eyes at his companion, "My guess would be you, Ylon—you'd sleep with a boar if it had a dress on"

Wincing at the thought, Ylon retorted, "Don't be mean, after all you should respect your court mage!"

"And why is that?"

"Because, I could turn you into a toad or something!" Ylon threatened, "Just because you are the King of us thieves and all, doesn't mean that you can speak to us so!"

A sigh escaped Alonn's mouth as he leaned back in his chair, "Even if that logic was true, it wouldn't have changed a damn thing, Ylon. You, more than anyone, should know that I don't lie"

"But couldn't you have sugar-coated the truth…at least a little bit? You didn't have to be so harsh—"

"ALONN!" a shout cut through the crowd like butter. Both Alonn and Ylon turned to look as a young boy collapsed before the table where they stood. Blood ran down his forehead in a steady flow, but he didn't seem to notice it.

Bracing himself with his good arm—the other one seemed to be hanging limply at his side—the boy spat out, "Alonn…_he's_ coming"

"'_He'_?" The two men asked aloud, just as the entrance door was kicked open and a man walked through, dragging one man in his right hand and carrying the other over his left shoulder.

His breathing was heavy as he made his way slowly through the crowd that parted for him. Covered in blood stains, his clothes looked as if they once belonged that to a noble yet now were reduced to rags. The man no longer wore a shirt for it seemed, to Ylon's trained eye, that it had been shredded to make make-shift bandages. His chest was well toned and slightly tan, his brown hair was messy, falling into his eyes and blocking most of his face from view.

As he approached Alonn's table, he dropped the two men he was carrying next to the fallen boy. A grin crept into his hidden face.

"A present for you, Alphonse Black" George told him, his now free hand drifting to his head to move his hair to the side, reveling his cloudy eyes. Both Alonn and Ylon stiffened at his eyes.

"You're blind" Ylon stated in amazement.

"Ylon, shut up"

Glaring at Alonn, Ylon flipped him off. Alonn ignored him and instead turned his attention to the man before him, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

George's grin widened, "Who I am and who I think I am are two different concepts entirely. Which of them do you wish for me to answer, Alphonse?"

Alonn's shoulder shook with barely concealed rage, a few strands of his silver hair failing into his face, "Don't play with me, stranger. Because I don't play kindly, like you're used to"

Laughter erupted from George, who placed his hands on the table to keep him standing. His left eye twitched, as Alonn watched the stranger and his fists clenched in fury.

"He has a death wish, doesn't he Alonn?" Ylon muttered, bringing his hand—fingers spread wide—before his face. Along his fingers, a ghostly yellow-green magic flitting across them like lightening. His magic casted his tan face into shadows, and leaving his eyes a blood red that seemed to smolder beneath his hand. It crackled loudly, his power, as he held it before him waiting for the Thief King's command.

Alonn, instead of ordering the stranger's death, whispered in a low voice, "Hold Ylon, I'm curious as to what gives him the courage to challenge me in such a way. Well, Stranger, why are you here?"

By now the entire court held their breaths, "I've come for your treasure, the one that you are bound by blood to protect." His voice nothing more than a whisper, seemed to echo in the silence of the Dove, "Something that no mere thief knows of, yet it was entrusted to the Court of Thieves millennia's ago. Do you know what I am speaking of, Alphonse Black?"

Lowering his head, Alonn made no response; so George continued, "If you don't remember, I don't blame you. When I first heard of it, I wanted to erase it from my mind as well. The curse that our successors pass on, it's enough to make you want to slit your own throat, isn't it?"

Again, Alonn said nothing to his words. "You know what I'm looking for, I can read your mind Alonn," George sneered, "And I can tell that you're scared shitless, aren't I right?"

Ylon stared in wonder at him, then to the stranger and then back to Alonn once again, "What is he talking about?! Alonn!" His hand remained before his face but the magic slowly drained, due to Ylon's distracted attention, "Alonn?" Dropping his hand, he turned to face him, "Say something, damnit!"

George ignored the mage's outburst and continued to taunt the Rogue King, "Since you aren't speaking, I guess I'll just say what I'm after. Won't that make it easier? If everyone new what you had to cope with, the knowledge you had to live the rest of your life knowing—it's a heavy burden, isn't it? It's best just to throw it out there, that way you won't be the only one with the sleepless nights, they'll also share your nightmare."

"What do you want?" Alonn's voice startled Ylon, who was thinking about striking him, "What. Do. You. Want.?"

"The design of the Bastard Sword** " He replied simply with a shrug of his broad shoulders. Behind him, the entire court blinked, completely at a loss in what he was talking about. Yet, no one missed the sudden jerk of Alonn's body.

"Heh…Answer me this then," the King of Thieves whispered coarsely, his gold eyes flashing beneath his silver hair in a signal sent to Ylon, whose hand began to crackle with his yellow-green magic once more, "what's your name?"

A sneer grew on George's face, "Cooper" he replied, taking a step away from the table so as to take a firm stance before his would-be attackers.

"What, no first name? How sad. I'd've liked to know your full name, Cooper, but no loss there" Slowly raising his head, Alonn glanced up at George, "Ylon?"

"Yes?"

With a face like a mask, the King of the Court of the Rogue's spoke calmly, "Kill him"

**Bastard Sword is the nickname of the Hand-and-a-Half Sword (I'm completely serious…that's what it's actually called) that was used in the early 15th century. Used primarily for thrusts, its blade was thirty seven inches long with a long hilt as well that enabled a person to hold it with both of his/her hands on occasions. If you don't believe me, I got this information from a book called, "Weapon: a Visual History of Arms and Armor"…Any other question, feel free to ask ^^


	7. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Tortall realm or any of the characters from Tamora Pierce. I do own this plot and a few characters that I'll mention as they appear in my story.**

**Authors Note: I'm sorry I'm a slow writer but I go through like five (more like fifteen) edits before I even attempt the final edit -.-; so hence why I take a lot of time to update. Also, I have a feeling that a few people will not like this chapter or future ones (not gonna say why ^^) but let me remind you that this is my version of what happens to the Tortall series so please do not get worked up over how things…end. Since I don't want to give anything else away, I'll shut up. But reviews are always welcomed ^^**

**Random Extras: There is a character from the original series that shows up at some point in this chapter, but the thing is that I couldn't find the character's eye color. If any one knows, please let me know, 'cause it's bugging the hell out of me...my thanks! And the last thing I have to mention is that there will be a few "exchanges" of point of views. Enjoy the third chapter!**

Chapter 3

"Die, bitch" Jonathan snarled as he thrust his blade through Alanna's back. The metal, sharp as always, cut straight through her stomach, all the way through. Tasting blood in her mouth, Alanna slowly looked down only to stare in horror at the blade that had protruded from her torso.

The sword and crown fell from her hands as she fell to her knees in shock. Distantly, she knew that the spell on her leg had worn off, but the pain was drowned out by the sword currently residing in her gut.

"Fuck" she whispered as she collapsed to the ground, first to her knees, then to her hands and finally her side. Weakly, she curled into a ball, as much as she could with a sword sticking out of her stomach. A puddle of blood began to form around her. It soaked her already damp clothes from the previous puddle of someone else's bodily fluids. But that wasn't what made her shudder.

She had failed.

Steady steps, normally silent, reached her pain filled ears where every sound was delivered at a startling clarity. Alanna opened her eyes just as Jonathan crouch next to her, a cold expression on his face. She blinked, not sure if the pain was creating a hallucination or not. His grey hair was no longer charcoal in color but pure black, barely touching his shoulders. Slightly pale skin framed his handsome face, marred only by slight stubble along his features. High cheek bones with a straight nose had some blood splattered a crossed it slightly, ruining the almost perfect sight. His eyes were the same ice blue that she had always known; except they were much colder than she remembered.

Apparently she and George weren't the only people Roger had cursed.

His hand grabbed the collar of her tunic, dragging her closer to him, "If you're afraid of dying, don't worry, you'll have plenty of time before I actually finish you off."

A cold grin grew upon his face as he picked her up. The sword, still lodged in her chest, moved slightly, making Alanna gasp in pain. Tears came to her eyes as blood trickled down from the corner of her mouth.

"Jon—it's me!" she managed to say through the pain, before a spasm of coughs cut her off.

His cold laughter echoed brutally off the walls, "Like hell you are; I'm not going to fall for that—not again! Now tell me, who are you?"

"I'm Alanna—"

Jonathan slapped her with his free hand. His jeweled rings leaving scratches across her face, "Enough lies already! Who the fuck are you?"

Swallowing more blood, Alanna's vision began to darken. _I'm going to die, killed by Jon…how ironic is that?_

"Answer me!" he hissed at her, shaking her. Her vision grew darker, "I can keep you alive, bitch; I can force you to remain among the living even when you beg for death. You made a mistake taking _that_ form and coming here to torment me. And now, you're going to tell me who sent you to torment me. And you're going to tell me now, that's if you want the pain to end." Suddenly, he threw her to the side. She fell like a broken rag down to the floor, the sword making a sickening muffled sound as it struck the stone still lodged in her body.

"Jon…" she muttered, tears running down her blood covered face. But he never heard her moans.

"First, I need my sword" His cold words held a hint of amusement to her ears. Before she could wonder about that slight hint at insanity, he placed his foot against her back and yanked the sword from her stomach.

Alanna screamed.

Jon laughed.

As more blood spilled around Alanna, Jon began to walk slowly around her until he stood before her. Alanna tried to lift her head, but all her strength was sapped from her, and all she could do was stare at his boots.

_Jon, what's wrong with you?_ She thought to herself.

Staring back down at her, Jonathan felt the uncontrollable rage burning inside him only grow more. _How dare she—how dare this bitch take __**her**__ form. Out of all the people in this whole forsaken world, why __**her**__?_ The sword in his hand seemed to be humming in his grip, as if it craved more despite the steady dripping blood that fell from the blade. He had almost fallen for the vixen's trap, but then he had seen the remains of Isaac's statue on the ground and remembered the last imposter.

He'd never fall for the same trick twice.

"Now, are you going to talk or not?" he asked her, but the imposter didn't speak. _She's not dead though, I can see her chest moving so she must be breathing. Does she not value her life? What a whore._

His anger getting the better of him, he landed a kick to her side went she her already broken body a few feet from his boot. She screamed again, but it was more of a cough—after all, he had kicked her ribs and probably broke a one that might have punctured one of her lungs. _Oops_.

Walking over to her, he once more crouched down. Her coppery hair had fallen to cover her pale face and now was sticking to it due to the blood that was matted to her hair. A sudden urge to push aside the hair came upon him and he didn't stop it. He let his calloused hand stretch out to place the lock of hair that covered her eyes behind her ears.

Angry violet eyes glared back at him, and before he could jerk his hand away, she bit down on his hand.

Blood began to flow into her mouth, but all she blocked it all out. _I'm not going to let go, nor am I going to give up on you. Kill me if you like, but I'll save you first_, she thought defiantly to herself.

"Bitch" his free hand grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking it back. But she didn't let go; only biting harder, "Mother-fucker! Let go already!"

She only stared back at him with her calm violet eyes. That scared Jonathan, _it's too similar_…

Infuriated by her eyes, he stood up—with her teeth embedded in his hand—and threw her at the wall, holding her there with his captive hand. He was crushing her skull, and all she had to do was let go, it was the only thing holding her there.

But Alanna refused to let go of her hold. Instead, she just kept staring at him, ignoring the darkness filling her vision.

"Stop it!" He hissed, then began to yell, "Stop It! Stop looking at me! You're an imposter, a demon coming to haunt me again! Just stop it! STOP STARING AT ME!"

Alanna's eyes did not waver.

He began to shake, "…why? What do you want? Just leave me alone—you already kill Isaac, what more can you do to me?"

Alanna tried to ask what he meant, but with his hand in her mouth, it made it difficult to speak. Releasing her hold, Alanna opened her mouth, "Jon?" she whispered as her body slowly slid to the floor, "I'm sorry I'm late" a grin appeared upon her face, despite the tears that began to fall once more, "I'm sorry that I failed you"

In horror, Jon watched her fall to the floor, realization finally dawning in his crazed mind, "Ala—Alanna?"

A smile on her face grew, "Good, you're back," as a trickle of blood began to fall from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes started to flutter until they shut, "I—I didn't…fail…" she muttered with a shaky breath, trying to keep the smile on her face.

Jon, saying nothing, just stared at her as a new coldness began to descend upon him. Then, his knees gave out, "No…" He collapsed to the ground, both hands on the ground, his fingers digging into the stone and dirt floor.

Shakily, she reached out to him, and placed her hand upon his own, "Don't…worry. I'm just gl—glad that I didn't fail you…"

"Don't. Fucking. Touch. Me!" he screamed, his body flinching away from her touch.

"Jon—?"

"Shut up!" Jon's voice echoed harshly through out the room. Alanna, lying across the floor with her life slowly fading, tried to focus her eyes on his crouching body but was unable. The blood loss was taking its effect. Her head suddenly began to feel light and it was harder for her to concentrate. She was dying and now Jonathan, after seeming to remember that she was in fact the real Alanna and not some imposter, began to act like this. _I'm screwed, aren't I goddess?_, she thought sarcastically, a sadistic giggle rising in her throat. Alanna managed to hold it back, but barely.

"Shit shit shit shit shit!" his almost chanting caught her faulting attention.

Attempting to keep her eyes open—a difficult feat in her current condition—she tried to call out to him, but her throat was too dry. Again, she tried, only to be interrupted by his muttering.

"This wasn't suppose to happen—why does this happen?—what the fuck did I do wrong…why do I deserve this?—SHUT UP…I did nothing wrong, but why—Why is this…Not suppose to happen, never was suppose to hurt _her_…Only he—_He_ needed to die, not her…but now…how could I? How the hell could I do this to her—my love…never forgive, never forgive me for this…atrocious sin—Damn it all, why?"

His form crumbled and he began to shake, his hands running through his black hair, tainted with blood from the scratches he was creating as dragged his finger nails across his scalp.

"Jonathan" Alanna ventured, finally finding her voice, "Jon, it's ok, I know about Roger and how he tricked you. Don't blame yourself about this; Roger is at fault for all this—"

Cut off by his sudden cold glare, Alanna couldn't help herself from falling silent. Then to her surprise, he started to laugh, a laugh of someone who had finally snapped. His laughter grew louder and more hysterical, and soon his body was trembling with tears running down his face—whether from his laughter or something else, Alanna did not know.

"Not Roger…never Roger. He never managed to take anything from me—though he tried—no, not Roger but George. That son of a bitch needs to die. Such a death too, I've waited far too long for him to die—and for that whore to die as well. Why do they cling to life so hard when they know that they are not welcomed?"

"What are you talking about? Jonathan, you're not making any sense! Jon!"

He didn't hear her, "Never loved her, stupid woman and she even knew that I never loved her. But she wouldn't die, just fought for my attention and never told _her_—she was too jealous" he began to chuckle at his own jokes, "far too jealous to tell _her_…but maybe she told him, that bastard George, probably did. Morons, how could I love that whore and still accept George as a friend, after he stole _her_? Never, never! But she tried, got to give her that credit. All for naught, for I never gave shit about her…useless prostitute, useless wife…"

Alanna's eyes widened in shock,_ "useless wife"…is he talking about Thayet?_

"But she died—took her long enough—but that ass is still alive…why won't he die? Why can't he die? Are those fucking gods still protecting him? But now…now _she's_ going to die…by my own hands..." a revelation seemed to have struck him and he paused in his antics, "But if _she_ dies, than he can't have _her_…no one can."

_Is he talking about me?_, she asked herself, then decided to ask the person in question, "Jon, are you—talking about me?"

He lifted his head, his dazed eyes glanced at her, yet they seemed not to see her at all. It was a stare that frightened Alanna more than any mythical creature she had ever faced, "Jonathan?"

"No one…no one can take her if she isn't among the realm of the living." He crawled to his feet, a look of utter insanity crept into his handsome face, and strangely it reminded Alanna of a legend about demons that could take a form of a handsome youth in order to lure its prey into its lair. According to the stories, the transformation that it undertook from changing from human to its original form was painful for the demon and often they would go insane after so few changes.

"Jonathan!" she screamed, but her voice cracked making her cry sound like more of a croak. He only smiled at some far thing, not even seeing her despite looking straight at her. _It's as if he's dreaming_.

In vain, Alanna tried to move, tried to get to her feet to defend herself—even attempted to grab her sword to block him—but she was too tired, too exhausted to even lift a finger. Blood loss had drained her of all her energy, and the injuries she had received since she had run into Jon had gone numb, making it so that she couldn't even wiggle her toes.

_I'm going to die here,_ she thought to herself in a calm manner, _I'm going to died—murdered by my insane friend—it isn't as quite I had thought, but I guess pickers can't be choosers_.

Jonathan raised his sword, whispering, "Such a being wasn't meant for this world anyways—" Then abruptly was cut off. Dimly, Alanna felt something splatter across her, before Jon's body fell to the ground a few feet from her, a sword—not his or her own—protruding from his chest.

She stared at him, her vision darkening, not completely understanding what happened until she heard, more than saw, a man stepping over Jon's body.

"Don't worry, Jon, you won't die yet" the man's cold whisper made Alanna shiver. Out of the corner of her disappearing vision, she could see Jon being lifted by his shirt collar by a wrapped hand, "The God won't allow it."

_The God?_ she thought to herself, struggling to make sense of what was happening, but it seemed to her that her mind was in rebellion, not wanting to concentrate but to go to sleep…

"Nor will He allow you to die either, Alanna of Trenbond—or should I say, Alan?" Whoever the stranger was, he tossed Jon to the side, as if he weighed nothing, before advancing towards her. With all her will, Alanna opened her eyes, not wanting to die with them shut—_but the man had said that he wouldn't kill me, didn't he? Or did I just imagine that?_

The man, very tall and lanky, stood before her. His face as well as his entire body was covered in bandage wraps, all except his eyes, which were even hid behind clumps of black hair that stuck out from the bandages. He wore no shirt, for the wraps covered his entire torso—arms, shoulders, chest, and hands; his pants hung low on his hips and were tucked into his dark leather boots. Two swords hung from belts around his waist, one of which was gripped tightly in his hand, dripping with Jonathan's blood. Cold silver eyes stared down at her, and Alanna had a gut feeling that he was grinning at her pathetic state.

"Who are you?" She mouthed, unable to summon the energy to put sound behind the words.

The stranger chuckled deeply, and Alanna vaguely remembered the voice, but she had heard it so long ago. He crouched before her, his free hand reaching out to her forehead. _Where have I heard that voice?_ Alanna thought desperately, knowing that he could very well kill her in seconds._ Why is it so damn familiar?_

"You don't remember me, do you Alan—Alanna?" he whispered, his hand hovering inches from her forehead. She couldn't even shake her head, "Poor, poor Alanna. It's not every day that your friends betray you, is it? It must be hard, very hard to fight back; even harder to kill them, right?"

His words seemed to trigger memories that came back in a flood. Suddenly, she felt sick. So much sicker, and none of it was caused by her wounds but was the work of her head suddenly flaring to life at the last moment.

"Alex?" she whispered in a weak voice.

A loud laugh tore from his body, and his silver eyes—eyes that were very wrong—bore into her fragile mind, but he never responded. His fingers touched her forehead, where a jolt of magic shot through her skull, knocking her out cold.

* * *

The man in the darkness groaned, his head falling to rest on his chest. His arms hurt, his head felt as if a million shields were pressing against it, and even his legs that were suspended in this airless world ached.

Hundreds of chains were bound to his body, some wrapped around his torso in a snake's loving but deadly embrace. Others were attached to curved ends, hooked through his skin, the tips barely, but fully, reaching the other side; some even weren't even hooks, but traveled through his body all the same. His blood had been seeping out along those chains, staining them for the entire time he had been here.

Yet, he was alive—breathing and heart beating, the things that qualified one to be living—and he wasn't going to die any time soon. Not as long as The God deemed it in his best interest to keep him alive. The man hadn't even a clue as to what it may be that his tormentor kept him here.

But then again, he didn't remember much.

No, any fragments of his memory had long since fled his mind as he hung in his prison, along with everything else; leaving him alone in the dark, with nothing to comfort him besides the pain. It was the only thing that kept him sane…reasonably sane as one could be under the circumstances.

_Silence could drive one mad_, a voice whispered from the back of his mind. He heard many voices now, _too bad you couldn't be…_

**It'd be so much easier if you'd just give in—what else have you got to lose? You can't die, the Lord of Death won't accept you after the high treason you've committed in the past. It'd be easier to survive if you just gave in…**

The man shook his head, trying to ignore those voices, "Shut up" he whispered, slightly startled at his own voice, "Shut up"

_You know we speak the truth—we can't lie_.

A third voice joined in with their taunts, It's pointless, you don't even exist among the living nor do you among the dead. Give in to the pain, surrender, it'd be less painful than this reality or do you enjoy living in this state of existence?

_Only a matter of time…we can wait—we are oh-so-patient._

"Time's only a fucking illusion." The man hissed to himself to drown out the voices, "And I won't surrender, not to you nor any douche bag of a god"

**Don't get so cocky, in time you will succumb. And we shall wait until you do. **

"I will not!"

**In due time we shall see…won't we now?** Then the voices vanished, leaving him to the darkness, and a harsh and childish laughter echoing in his head.

Dreading that echo, he roared his frustration like a wild animal. He didn't even know why he resisted any more; just that he always had and always would. He couldn't remember his reasoning behind it—he couldn't even remember his name now—and it seemed that it would be better than enduring this torture for an eternity, yet he could not give in.

"I will not…surrender. I may not know who the hell I am any longer—or why I'm even here. But, for my past self, I will not give in…HEAR THAT YOU BASTARDS? YOU CAN GO FUCK YOURSELVES FOR ALL I CARE! I'M NOT SURRENDERING ANYTIME SOON, SO YOU MIGHT AS WELL SHOVE YOUR WASTED EFFORT UP YOUR ASSES!"

Unlike the voices, his own did not echo in this darkness that was his cell, but he could feel it vibrating along the chains. It hurt as the chains moved slightly, some tightening others loosening, but it hurt either way. Yet, he welcomed it.

Anything to keep the madness at bay.


End file.
